Lakshman nudged him. When Rama glanced at him, he found his brother watching him with a strange expression. For once, he seemed to have no smart witticism to offer. He looked pointedly at Sita and then back at Rama in a manner that was a comment in itself. Rama raised an eyebrow in warning. Lakshman nodded and gestured at the riverbank, at the brahmarishi.
Rama and his brother watched as the sage stopped by the edge of the water, standing as he had earlier that evening when they had reached the Shona, and raised his head to gaze in a north-easterly direction. The sage’s arms were raised as well, the wildwood staff clutched in his right hand casting an enormously long shadow that stretched across the meagre river and pointed into the dark depths of the woods bordering the north bank.
***
Bejoo wasn’t entirely certain, but he thought he could hear feel? - the brahmarishi mouthing mantras in that internalised manner of transcendental meditators. Was the sage praying for their safe journey? It was true that travel by night was unadvisable, as Bejoo himself had pointed out, especially in this part of the country where bandit gangs and wild predators were rife. But somehow he didn’t think the brahmarishi would be this anxious about mere dacoits and a few baghs or rksas. There was something else in the air, something imminent.
Bejoo could smell the threat of violence already. What was the sage leading them into this time? Not just a holy dip in the Ganga, that was for sure. What was at Visala anyway? And what was their mission there? Most of all, what did it have to do with the impending asura invasion?
That was what Bejoo cared most about: the invasion. The instant he’d heard the seer speak of it with such conviction, his first instinct had been to leap on to his horse and ride back to Ayodhya. That was where his place was if war was breaking out again. Not traipsing around the countryside playing daiimaa to a bunch of bald Brahmins and two rajkumars who could take care of themselves.
The wind changed just then, carrying the unmistakable drone of sub-auditory incantation, and Bejoo observed with a start that golden and blue motes were issuing from the brahmarishi’s mouth, floating towards Bejoo and the rajkumars and their companions like fire-sparks on the wind. From all around, Bejoo heard the uneasy mutters of his Vajra Kshatriyas as they watched the seer-mage work his Brahman sorcery. Even the Vajra horses and bigfoot grew unusually silent and still. The night seemed to gather in around them, the cookfires flickering and gasping in the wailing wind that had begun to blow, stirring up ashes and leaves.
If Bejoo had had any doubts before, he had none now. Clearly, the brahmarishi was speaking an incantation to ensure their safe and successful journey. What vital mission could they be embarking on now that even a brahmarishi of Vishwamitra’s stature felt compelled to ask the blessings of the devas before setting out?
He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. He was beginning to think that with the brahmarishi Vishwamitra and the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman, it might simply be best to follow them on their adventures rather than be forewarned about what to expect. That way he could focus on being a warrior, not a worry-wart. There were things in this world that a simple Vajra Kshatriya was better off not knowing in advance.
***
Sita felt the chill in the air and resisted the urge to shiver. She felt Rama’s eyes on her. She didn’t want him thinking she was … what? Weak? Cold? Why not? He must be cold too in this weather. Then she remembered, he was protected by the mahamantras. By concentrating, he could dispel physical discomfort, even sleep, hunger and exhaustion if he desired.
But that wasn’t the reason she felt reluctant to display weakness before him. It’s because he’s a man. And they’re all so quick to assume they’re stronger, faster, smarter. Except that she didn’t really think Rama was like that. He was … different somehow. Not just because he was a prince of the greatest Arya nation. Or the recent champion of Bhayanak-van. If anything, he seemed almost embarrassed about that heroic achievement.
It had taken her—in her guise as Janaki Kumar—almost half an hour of indirect and direct probing and clever questioning to get him to reveal some of his true feelings about the battle in the Southwoods. And even then, she kept feeling he was holding something back. Sita had known many champions before; as a princess she had a line of national heroes seeking her hand in marriage at any given time. She was all too familiar with that particular breed of macho, overbearing, full-of-themselves Kshatriya heroes. The champions she had known never held back any details of their conquests or triumphs. Yes, there was something different about Rama. She just wasn’t quite sure what it was.
She was drawn out of her thoughts by Nahkudi’s gentle nudge. A gentle nudge from the hulking Jat was like a punch in the shoulder from most ordinary men.
Sita looked in the direction Nakhudi was pointing just in time to see the scene unfolding by the riverside. As the brahmarishi’s chanting grew louder, something was starting to happen. The sky immediately above the seer-mage had grown darker and angrier, not just night-black but a deep scarlet-edged, purple-hearted black, like a storm approaching. Except that the storm was restricted to a single cloud that grew steadily, boiling and seething more frenetically with every line the mage uttered.
Sita could see blue-tinged lightning flashes exploding within the belly of the supernaturally created cloud. As she watched, it came steadily closer, descending over the section of the Shona riverbed where the Kshatriya camp was situated, bringing with it a darkness deeper than night. As she watched, the seer roared his final words and the cloud roared back at him like a herd of wild elephant, opening a dark maw with which it swallowed up the brahmarishi. Vishwamitra was enveloped completely by the seething cloud that now obscured the riverbed for several dozen yards in a northward direction.
Beside her, Sita heard Nakhudi cry out and start to move towards the spot where the brahmarishi had last been visible. Rama and Lakshman and the Vajra captain had seen what had happened and were running down the bank.
Sita began running as well.
***
Within the cloud, Vishwamitra chanted a calming mantra. The seething and boiling reduced gradually, the thundering died down, until he was surrounded by a relatively benign fog. It
remained thicker than any ordinary natural fog, its texture that of volcanic effusion rather than condensation mist, but unlike the offal of a volcanic emission, this cloud did not suffocate or choke. If anything, it was warm and comforting, a blanket against the abruptly chill early spring night.
Tiny lightning bolts flashed at the periphery of the brahmarishi’s vision. Using his hands and a few carefully chosen verses he had composed spontaneously for this specific purpose, he began to reshape the cloud. Controlled by his incantations, it rolled slowly across the river and into the woods in a roughly straight line, like the dust-plume of a speeding chariot disappearing down a raj-marg. The sage’s hands blurred as they gestured and sketched mudras in the air, carving a passageway through the heart of the midnight-blue fog. After a pause, he pointed the head of his staff and recited another incantation: the centre of the long line of fog opened up, creating a hollow corridor large enough for a man as tall as the seer-mage - or the Jat bodyguard - to move through easily. The seer-mage studied the corridor of Brahman fog, then sketched another mudra with his right hand. The corridor expanded laterally by a half-yard.
Satisfied, the seer pushed a palm outwards, as if commanding the passageway to go. At once, the Brahman corridor expanded in that direction, unrolling into the distance for as far as the eye could see.
Behind him, he heard the voices of the rajkumars approaching. Rama was the first to reach him.
‘Guru-dev?’
Vishwamitra turned to Rama. ‘It is imperative we reach Visala before dawn, and Mithila before noon, Rama. Yet, owing to my penitential vows, I may not ride a mount or seat a carriage. Visala is forty-five yojanas from here, and Mithila another thirty yojanas thence. The combined distance is close to seven hundred miles. Only Brahman shakti can help our company reach there in such a short time.’
Rama glanced at the unfurling corridor of dark blue fog still working its way into the distance. ‘My brother and I can run that distance, maha-dev. But the rajkumari Sita—’
‘And her associate and the Vajra captain,’ Vishwamitra continued for him, ‘would be unable to match your speed. Hence I have created this corridor. Within this Brahman-infused space, all of you will possess the ability to run as fast as you desire. I will lead the way, Rama. Then will come the rajkumari and her bodyguard. Followed by your brother and yourself. The Vajra captain shall bring up the rear. Inform them accordingly.’
‘Yes, Guru-dev.’ Rama turned to carry out the seer’s order. The others were waiting a few yards away, watching anxiously. Rama hesitated, then turned back.
‘Speak, Rama.’ The sage’s voice was quiet.
Rama said, ‘Guru-dev, did you know from the very first moment that Janaki Kumar was a woman? I mean, that the Kshatriya was actually Rajkumari Sita travelling incognito?’
The sage looked at him. Vishwamitra’s eyes were still flecked with the gold and blue motes of Brahman shakti.
‘Are you asking me why I did not expose her the moment you returned to the procession, rajkumar?’
‘Yes, Guru-dev.’
The sage permitted himself a small smile. ‘Because all things serve the purpose of Brahman, Rama. And because, if I had revealed her true identity at that time, then you would have lost the opportunity to make a new friend. And I repeat the word “friend”. Does that answer your question?’
Rama thought for a moment. Then his expression changed. ‘Yes, Guru-dev.’
He turned back to the others.
THIRTEEN
The night had turned deathly cold by the time they set out. They entered the corridor of fog and made their way across the river. They were able to walk on the water or, rather, on the flimsy translucent smoke. Through the fog they could see the world outside as through a misty window. Colours were dimmed, illumination faded - the lights of the cookfires seemed like glow-worms nesting, and shapes were obscured. It was a strange state of being, neither of the world of waking nor of the world of dreams. Real, yet unreal. Rama was reminded of being underwater. It was a curiously intimate sensation.
The fog itself felt oddly firm beneath their feet but it was the firmness of well-packed damp sand or clay. No pebbles dug into their soles, no dips caught their toes, no rough patches slowed their feet, no smooth places made them slippery. It was like running on an endless undulating platform made of a substance that was like sand, but a perfect, non-gritty sand. That was the only way Rama could manage to describe it to himself.
Already he could feel the shakti of the maha-mantras coursing through his veins, empowering him, sending his feet treadmilling ever faster through the dark foliage at a speed no normal mortal could achieve.
They crossed the River Shona, plunging directly into the dense woods on the north bank, travelling sharply northeast. The lack of a moon made the thick jungle easier to navigate rather than harder. The sage led them, and his staff emitted a blueish glow that was surprisingly effective in illuminating the path ahead, while obscuring everything to either side. Where a moon would have cast a silver net over their entire surroundings, the sage’s Brahman light lit up only the area ahead that they needed to see as they ran.
He’s blinkering us, the way we blinker horses, Rama thought as he picked up speed to match the sage’s accelerating pace. He also knew that the seer was somehow using his Brahman shakti to expand the corridor ahead as they advanced, just as he was collapsing the corridor behind them as they covered the ground.
As he ran, Rama could smell the Vajra captain sweating liberally behind him. Bejoo was bringing up the rear, and as their speed increased to a level impossible to achieve by normal means, Rama could sense his fear and nervousness. The Vajra captain, like most older Kshatriyas, had a palpable fear of Brahman sorcery, whether benign or otherwise.
Not just older Kshatriyas.
Even now, Rama knew, Lakshman still harboured some vestige of resistance. That fact alone made him that much slower and less strong than Rama, who knew he had passed the point of acceptance and was now ready to explore new levels of the shakti. He felt as if he had discovered the secret that underlay all of creation: and in many ways, he had. Brahman was the power that the universe was made up of. He hoped Lakshman would learn to embrace and accept it in time.
As they ran, his Brahman-accentuated senses smelled the odours of the woods: the rich variety of Videha flora and fauna. The jungle was rife with predators of all shapes and species; several balked nervously at their passing, cringing or snarling menacingly as the seer’s band sprinted impossibly fast through the pitch-dark jungle. The prey animals only stared dumbly, uncomprehending. Somewhere to his right, Rama sensed a bagheera tensing, preparing to spring. By the time it landed, they were already fifty yards ahead. The bagheera pawed the forest floor frantically, unable to understand how it had missed.
Glancing up, Rama could see stars visible faintly through gaps in the foliage. There was the constellation of Makar the Crab, an ominous sign. From the speed at which the foliage cut the starlight, he estimated that the sage was leading them at a pace of roughly four yojanas an hour. Thirty-six miles. Still too slow.