Scion of Ikshvaku (25 page)

‘I thank Lord Brahma that your preference doesn’t extend to a man being loyal to the same woman for many lifetimes!’ Arishtanemi chuckled.

Ram smiled.

‘But Prince Ram,’ said Arishtanemi, ‘I’m sure you must be aware that polygamy as a practice rose a few centuries ago with good reason. We had survived the fifty-year war between the Suryavanshis and the Chandravanshis. Millions of men died. There were simply not enough bridegrooms left, which is why men were encouraged to marry more than one woman. Quite frankly, we also needed to repopulate our country. Thereafter, more and more people began to practice polygamy.’

‘Yes, but we don’t have that problem now, do we?’ asked Ram. ‘So why should men continue to be allowed this privilege?’

Arishtanemi fell silent. After a few moments, he asked Ram, ‘Do you intend to marry only one woman?’

‘Yes. And I will remain loyal to her for the rest of my life. I will not look at another woman.’

‘
Dada
,’ said Lakshman, grinning slyly, ‘how can you avoid looking at other women? They’re everywhere! Are you going to shut your eyes every time a woman passes by?’

Ram laughed. ‘You know what I mean. I will not look at other women the way I would look at my wife.’

‘So, what are you looking for in a woman?’ asked Arishtanemi, intrigued.

Ram was about to start speaking when Lakshman promptly jumped in. ‘No. No. No. I have to answer this.’

Arishtanemi looked at Lakshman with an amused grin.

‘
Dada
had once said,’ continued Lakshman, ‘that he wants a woman who can make him bow his head in admiration.’

Lakshman smiled proudly as he said this. Proud that he knew something so personal about his elder brother.

Arishtanemi cast a bemused look at Ram and smiled. ‘Bow your head in admiration?’

Ram had nothing to say.

Arishtanemi looked ahead. He knew a woman who Ram would almost certainly admire.

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Chapter 20
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Vishwamitra and his entourage reached Mithila a week later. Being a fertile, marshy plain that received plentiful monsoonal rain, the land around Mithila was productive beyond measure. It was said that all a Mithila farmer needed to do was fling some seeds and return a few months later to harvest the crop. The land of Mithila would do the rest. But since the farmers of Mithila had not cleared too much land or flung too many seeds, the forest had used the bounty of nature and created a dense barrier all around the city. The absence of a major river added to its isolation. Mithila was cut off from most other Indian cities, which were usually accessed by river.

‘Why are we so dependent on rivers?’ Ram asked. ‘Why don’t we build roads? A city like Mithila need not be cut off.’

‘We did have good roads once upon a time,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Maybe you can rebuild them.’

As the convoy broke through the forest line, they came upon what must have served as a defensive moat once, but had now been converted into a lake to draw water from. The lake circumscribed the entire city within itself so effectively that Mithila was like an island. There were no animals, like crocodiles, in the lake, for it no longer served a military purpose. Steps had been built on the banks for easy access to water. Giant wheels drew water from the lake, which was carried into the city through pipes.

‘It is incredibly dim-witted to use the moat as your main water supply,’ said Lakshman. ‘The first thing a besieging army would do is to cut it off. Or worse; they may even poison the water.’

‘You are right,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘The prime minister of Mithila realised this. That is why she had a small, but very deep lake constructed, within the city walls.’

Ram, Lakshman and Arishtanemi dismounted at the outer banks of the lake. They had to cross a pontoon bridge to enter the city. Because a pontoon bridge is essentially a floating platform supported by parallel lines of barges or boats, making the structure shaky and unstable, it was wiser to walk across on foot, leading your horse.

Arishtanemi explained enthusiastically, ‘Not only is it cheaper than a conventional bridge, it can also be destroyed easily if the city is attacked. And, of course, be rebuilt just as easily.’

Ram nodded politely, wondering why Arishtanemi felt the need to talk up Mithila. In any case, the city was obviously not wealthy enough to convert the temporary bridge into a more permanent structure.

But then, which kingdom in India, besides Lanka, is wealthy today? The Lankans have taken away all our wealth.

After they crossed over, they came upon the gates of Mithila’s fort walls. Interestingly, there were no slogans or military symbols of royal pride emblazoned across the gate. Instead, there was a large image of Lady Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge, which had been carved into the top half of the gate. Below it was a simple couplet:

Swagruhe Pujyate Murkhaha; Swagraame Pujyate Prabhuhu

Swadeshe Pujyate Raja; Vidvaansarvatra Pujyate.

A fool is worshipped in his home.

A chief is worshipped in his village.

A king is worshipped in his kingdom.

A knowledgeable person is worshipped everywhere.

Ram smiled.
A city dedicated to knowledge.

‘Shall we enter?’ asked Arishtanemi, pulling his horse’s lead rope and clicking as he stepped forward.

Ram nodded to Lakshman, and they led their horses behind Arishtanemi as he entered the city. Behind the gates, a simple road led to another fort wall, at a distance of a kilometre from the outer wall. The rest of the area between the two walls was neatly partitioned into plots of agricultural land. Food crops were ready for harvest.

‘Smart,’ said Ram.

‘Yes
Dada
, growing crops within the fort walls secures their food supply,’ said Lakshman.

‘More importantly, there’s no human habitation here. This area would be a killing field for an enemy who manages to breach the outer fort wall. An attacking force will lose too many men in the effort to reach the second wall, without any hope of a quick retreat. It’s militarily brilliant — two fort walls with uninhabited land in between. We should replicate this in Ayodhya as well.’

Arishtanemi quickened his footsteps as they approached the inner fort wall.

‘Are those windows I see?’ asked Lakshman, pointing towards the top section of the inner fort wall.

‘Yes,’ said Arishtanemi.

‘Do people use the fort wall as a part of their accommodation?’ asked Lakshman, surprised.

‘Yes, they do,’ said Arishtanemi.

‘Oh,’ said Lakshman, shrugging.

Arishtanemi smiled as he looked ahead again.

‘What the hell!’ said Lakshman, stopping short as soon as he passed the gates of the inner city walls of Mithila. He reached for his sword, instinctively. ‘We’ve been led into a trap!’

‘Calm down, prince,’ said Arishtanemi, with a broad smile. ‘This is not a trap. This is just the way Mithila is.’

They had walked into a large, single-walled structure that lay on the other side of the gate; it was a continuous line of homes that shared a huge wall. All the houses were built against each other, like a honeycomb, with absolutely no divisions or space in between. There was a window high on the wall for each individual home, but no doors existed at the street level. It was no surprise that Lakshman thought they had been led into a dead end, a perfect trap or ambush. The fact that most of Vishwamitra’s convoy was missing only added to his suspicions.

‘Where are the streets?’ asked Ram.

Since all the houses were packed against each other in one continuous line, there was no room for streets or even small paths.

‘Follow me,’ said Arishtanemi, enjoying the obvious befuddlement of his fellow travellers. He led his horse to a stone stairway built into the structure of a house.

‘Why on earth are you climbing up to the roof?! And that too, with your horse!’ Lakshman exclaimed.

‘Just follow me, prince,’ said Arishtanemi calmly.

Ram patted Lakshman, as though to soothe him, and started walking up the steps. Lakshman reluctantly followed, leading his horse. They reached the rooftop to confront a scene that was simply unimaginable.

The ‘rooftops’ of all the houses was in fact a single smooth platform; a ‘ground’ above the ‘ground’. ‘Streets’ had been demarcated with paint, and they could see people headed in different directions, purposefully or otherwise. Vishwamitra’s convoy could be seen far ahead.

‘My God! Where are we? And where are those people headed?’ asked Lakshman, who had never seen anything like this.

‘But how do these people enter their houses?’ asked Ram.

As if in answer, a man pulled open a flat door on what evidently was the ‘sidewalk’ on the roof, and then stepped down, into his house, shutting the door behind him. Ram could now see that, at regular intervals on the sidewalks, where no traffic was allowed, were trapdoors to allow residents access to their homes. Small vertical gaps between some lines of houses exposed grilled windows on the side walls, which allowed sunlight and air into some of the homes.

‘What do they do during the monsoon?’ asked Lakshman.

‘They keep the doors and windows closed when it rains,’ said Arishtanemi.

‘But what about light, air?’

Arishtanemi pointed to ducts that had been drilled at regular intervals. ‘Ducts have been built for a group of four houses each. Windows from inside the houses open up into these ducts to allow in air and light. Rainwater run-off collects in drains below the duct. The drains run under the “Bees Quarter” and lead into either the moat outside the walls, or the lake inside the city. Some of it is used for agriculture.’

‘By the great Lord Parshu Ram,’ said Lakshman. ‘Underground drains. What a brilliant idea! It’s the perfect way to control disease.’

But Ram had caught on to something else. ‘Bees Quarter? Is that what this area is called?’

‘Yes,’ answered Arishtanemi.

‘Why? Because it is built like a honeycomb?’

‘Yes,’ smiled Arishtanemi.

‘Someone obviously has a sense of humour.’

‘I hope you have one as well, because this is where we will be living.’

‘What?’ asked Lakshman.

‘Prince,’ said Arishtanemi apologetically, ‘the Bees Quarter is where the workers of Mithila live. As we move inwards, beyond the gardens, streets, temples and mercantile areas, we arrive at the abodes and palaces of the rich, including the royalty. But, as you’re aware, Guru Vishwamitra wants you to travel incognito.’

‘How exactly do we do that if the prime minister knows we are here?’ asked Lakshman.

‘The prime minister only knows that Guru Vishwamitra has arrived with his companions. She doesn’t know about the princes of Ayodhya. At least, not as yet.’

‘We’re the princes of Ayodhya,’ said Lakshman, his fists clenched tight. ‘A kingdom that is the overlord of the Sapt Sindhu. Is this how we will be treated here?’

‘We’re only here for a week,’ said Arishtanemi. ‘Please…’

‘It’s all right,’ said Ram, cutting in. ‘We’ll stay here.’

Lakshman turned to Ram. ‘But
Dada
…’

‘We have stayed in simpler quarters before, Lakshman; it’s just for a short while. Then we can go home. We have to honour our father’s wishes.’

‘I hope you both are comfortable,’ said Vishwamitra, as he stepped down into the apartment through the roof door.

In the afternoon, the third hour of the third
prahar,
Vishwamitra had finally visited the Bees Quarter. The brothers had been given accommodation in an apartment at the inner extreme end, beyond which lay a garden; one of the many that proliferated the inner, more upmarket parts of the city. Being at one end of the massive Bees Quarter structure, they were lucky to have a window on the outer wall, which overlooked the garden. Ram and Lakshman had not visited the inner city as yet.

Vishwamitra had been housed in the royal palace, within the heart of the city. It used to be a massive structure once upon a time, but the kindly King Janak had gradually given away parts of the palace to be used as residences and classrooms for
rishis
and their students. The philosopher-king wanted Mithila to serve as a magnet for men of knowledge from across the land. He showered gifts from his meagre treasury upon these great teachers.

‘Well, certainly less comfortable than you must be, Guru
ji
,’ said Lakshman, a sneer on his face. ‘I guess only my brother and I need to remain incognito.’

Vishwamitra ignored Lakshman.

‘We are all right, Guru
ji
,’ said Ram. ‘Perhaps the time has come for you to guide us on the mission we have to complete in Mithila. We are eager to return to Ayodhya.’

‘Right,’ said Vishwamitra. ‘Let me get to the point straight away. The king of Mithila has organised a
swayamvar
for his eldest daughter, Sita.’

A
swayamvar
was an ancient tradition in India. The father of the bride organised a gathering of prospective bridegrooms, from whom his daughter was free to either select her husband, or mandate a competition. The victor would win her hand.