Rama spoke for them all again. ‘We understand, Senapati. These are part of the standard security procedures during a full alert. If you like, you may return to your post at the first gate.’
‘If you please, rajkumar, I shall stay until you are within the gates.’
‘Very well,’ Rama replied. After a pause he added: ‘I hope to speak to my father at the earliest and request him to give you leave to open the gates.’
The senapati hesitated. ‘As you wish, rajkumar. However, I would advise against it.’
Rama looked at him curiously. ‘Do you really fear that some of those commoners may be asuras in disguise?’
‘I wish that were all I feared.’ The ageing warrior’s steel-blue eyes went to the scorched spot marking the disappearance of the rakshas intruder. ‘Nay, I suspect these occurrences happen not in isolation. I was a wrestler once as you mayhap recall and among wrestlers we have a game. In some parts of the kingdom it is called kho, in others kabbadi. You rajkumars have probably played it yourselves a thousand times.’
They nodded. Dheeraj Kumar was being politely modest. He had been both wrestling and kabbadi champion in the seven Arya nations, holding the titles virtually unbroken for over twenty years until his recent retirement. Even at his current age, some seventy-plus years, he was still a robust and towering specimen of akhada vidya, the ancient Arya regime of physical exercise based on natural training.
The senapati went on: ‘In kabbadi, each team stays within its square and sends a single warrior into the enemy’s square. The envoy has to continually chant “kabbadi-kabbadi-kabbadi” over and over without taking in fresh breath, and attempt to touch the farthest border of the enemy square. If he succeeds in touching it, the game is won by his team. If he cannot touch the border, he attempts to touch one or more of the enemy players, thereby removing them from the game. The enemy team’s job is to grab hold of him at once and pin him to the ground until he is forced to take fresh breath, without letting him drag himself back to his own team’s square.’
Rama noticed a small knot of darkly garbed men at the far end of the avenue. They seemed unusually agitated. Probably Holi revellers impatient for the celebration to begin. He tried to concentrate on the general’s words but his eyes stayed on that growing knot of black.
The senapati looked around at the rajkumars to see if they had understood the significance of his description.
Bharat nodded first: ‘You feel the rakshas Kala-Nemi was the first player sent by the enemy team to seek out our weaknesses and strengths, to see how far he could get before he was stopped, or even if he could go all the way and touch the goal-line of our chaukat.’ Bharat indicated the towering spires of the palace. ‘Perhaps take out some of our key players in the process. That is your analogy, is it not, Senapati?’
‘Indeed, Rajkumar Bharat,’ the veteran replied. ‘And it’s credit to our team for having safely ousted their first intruder without a single casualty on our side. But do you know what we must do next to follow their play?’
Shatrugan replied: ‘Our turn. We send one of ours into their chaukat. Same strategy. Seek out strengths and weaknesses. Show them we’re willing and able to fight back. Ideally, do more harm to them than they did to us. Otherwise, they’ll just keep coming back.’
The senapati nodded. ‘You have the lay of it, Rajkumar Shatrugan. I have watched you play with my grandsons in the akhada. You have great promise.’
At the unexpected praise, Shatrugan’s face coloured rapidly. He managed to nod briefly and utter a short ‘With your grace, sir.’
A voice called out from the far side of the gate. ‘Enter and be welcome, princes of Ayodhya. Enter in the name of your father, Maharaja Dasaratha.’
The princes turned to see Captain Drishti Kumar supervising the opening of the gates. They rode in and dismounted, handing their horses and chariots to their grooms who had been waiting since before they had arrived back, watching eagerly and anxiously for their return.
Senapati Dheeraj Kumar saluted Captain Drishti Kumar smartly, giving no indication that the man he was addressing was his own son and heir. ‘Captain, I hand over the four rajkumars Rama, Bharat, Shatrugan and Lakshman to your possession. Guard them with your life and honour. I bid you leave. Aagya.’
‘Aagya,’ responded the captain.
The senapati shot one last glance at the rajkumars as he rode out through the gates, straight-backed and as proud as any young Kshatriya in his prime.
Bharat nodded in admiration as he watched the general leave. ‘Now that is a Kshatriya.’
‘Rajkumars.’ Drishti Kumar’s handsome features were flushed and heated although his voice betrayed no emotion. ‘My orders are to escort you directly into the palace and keep you within the protection of the palace guard until your father sends for you.’
Lakshman started to ask him what was being discussed in the sabha hall—it was obvious from the captain’s face that something startling was going on up there—but before he could finish, a loud shout was raised by one of the gate-watch, followed by several more yells of alarm.
They all turned to see what was going on. To their surprise, Rama was sprinting out of the gates.
He slipped through a fraction of a second before the heavy wrought-iron monstrosities swung fully shut with a resounding clanging echo. The surprised gate-watch and gate-closers—it took eight men just to open or close the gates—yelled warnings in vain. The gates were shut and Rama was out on the crowded avenue, thronged now by thousands of people.
In another second, he was lost in the crowd and had vanished from Lakshman’s sight.
TWENTY
This time it was Dasaratha who held up his hand to invoke silence. The outcries of alarm and fear died down at once. Whatever their agitation, his people loved and respected him.
Dasaratha was angry now with the seer-mage although he fought hard not to show it. His entire world view was being questioned. ‘Even if this is indeed as you describe, great one, Ravana would not dare invade without provocation. Mortals have been at peace with the asura races for twenty-two years. They would not dare take the first step towards their own annihilation.’
Vishwamitra permitted himself a smile. The sight of that unexpected expression on the legendary seer-mage’s lined and scarred face was more infuriating than any show of anger. He responded grimly: ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, you make the ancient mistake of judging the asuras by human standards. Remember:
They are not human
! That is why they are asuras!’
Dasaratha sat back, stung.
Vishwamitra went on relentlessly, gathering momentum and force now. The smile vanished from his face, leaving a craggy expression that promised fireworks. ‘Let me say this without euphemisms or circumvention. Whether twenty days or twenty years from now,
the asuras will invade
. It is the only goal of their existence. Every breath they take is dedicated to this purpose and this purpose alone. And they will not rest either until they have invaded the proud cities of the Arya nations and razed them to the ground, or until every last one of them is killed in violent combat. Their goal is total and uncompromising genocide. Either asuras or mortals will remain to walk the earth, but both species will no longer co-exist.’
The silence that met this announcement was more frightening than any chaotic outburst.
Dasaratha forced himself to speak again, realising that the seer-mage had cleverly drawn him into a debate that could only have one end. ‘Mahadev, I do not presume to question your sources of information, but my outposts and spies—’
‘Your spies are sold! Your outposts are taken
!’
Vishwamitra’s words struck Dasaratha’s ailing heart like a pair of hammer blows. He gripped the armrests of his throne, struggling for composure.
‘Hear me, raje,’ the seer-mage went on sternly but respectfully. ‘Hear me and know this for fact. The Lord of Lanka has corrupted your spies and every ally south of Ayodhya. None of them will ever bring you word of your enemies. This is why you have not heard anything to alarm you until this day. This is why Kala-Nemi was able to travel this far and enter Ayodhya undetected so easily.’
In a flash, Dasaratha knew the seer-mage was right and he was wrong. His heart fluttered now, and he suddenly felt the sabha hall grow dark around him. He clutched the armrests of his sunwood throne fiercely, his palms slippery with sweat. Still, instinct forced him to argue on.
‘Perhaps,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘But it’s one thing for a single rakshas in mortal guise to infiltrate our defences, and a completely different matter when you speak of tens of millions of asuras crossing the oceans and invading the entire Arya nations. Even Ravana’s black sorcery cannot cloak an army that large. We would be forewarned months before the first forces arrived. And,’ he went on, asserting his convictions in the face of those devastating revelations, ‘and even if this great host were to make the journey to Ayodhya unchallenged, then we shall not merely open our gates to them and say, “Come, bull, gore me”.’ The aphorism, an old colloquial one, brought nods of agreement from the more militant members of the sabha. ‘It is not for nothing that Ayodhya is called Ayodhya the Unconquerable. Ayodhya Anashya! And as long as Ayodhya stands, the Arya nations will not yield, I tell you.’
Vishwamitra struck his staff on the ground. A small explosive sound issued, startling those closest to the seer-mage. A tiny cloud of purple smoke emerged from the top of the staff, spreading its tentacles across the heads of the nervous assembly. ‘Behold, raje. Even as a cheap jadugar, a street magician, uses smoke and hypnosis to beguile his innocent audience, so has the Lord of Lanka used his god-granted powers to deceive and cloak your great mind.’
Dasaratha wondered if he had heard correctly. ‘Mahadev?’
Vishwamitra raised his staff. The purplish smoke rose to the high vaulted ceilings of the sabha hall, a thousand heads craning upwards to watch it. The smoke curled and spread surprisingly quickly, stretching long tendrils and tentacles in every direction. In moments the purple fingers covered the entire ceiling of the large hall.
Vishwamitra’s voice continued as the awed assembly watched this unexpected display of his powers. ‘Remember, raje. This is no ordinary rakshas king we speak of; this is Ravana himself. He whose thousand-year-long tapasya compelled mighty Brahma himself to grant him everlasting life and immunity from all destruction.’
‘Still,’ Dasaratha protested, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice, ‘we have defeated him before. We shall do so again, if need be.’ His eyes continued to follow the purple smoke as it spread across the white plaster ceiling.
Vishwamitra shook his head sadly. ‘Even now, you protest, raje? Then I must reveal unto you and your court what I was reluctant to speak of until now. Know this, great citizens of Ayodhya, defenders of the Kosala kingdom and guardians of the southernmost borders of the Arya nations. Ravana’s power is spreading amongst you even now, just as that purple mist is creeping through this assembly. He is here, in this very sabha hall, and is watching us even as we debate amongst ourselves.’
Dasaratha started to rise to his feet. This was beyond debate now; the mahaguru was clearly misinformed in this assumption. Spies in the court of Ayodhya? Impossible!
Before he could say another word, the purple mist fell on to the assembled courtiers with the suddenness of a clutch of hawks swooping on their prey. Ropes of purple smoke broke off from the main emission and sought out specific targets among the massed crowd. Dasaratha sank back and watched, amazed, as a moustached courtier far to the right of the sabha hall cried out. The purple smoke encircled him in the form of ropes, binding him fast. The courtier struggled as the ropes entwined themselves tightly around his flabby body, holding him as effectively as hemp cords.
Similar cries rose from across the hall. Dasaratha scanned the crowd of startled Ayodhyans. People were turning everywhere, pointing to one or another of their neighbours as the purple tendrils embraced and captured him. In moments, close to a dozen such courtiers were securely bound by the sorcerous smoke. Dasaratha recognised all of them by face, and several by name as well. One of them was court secretary to Jabali, minister of administration. Jabali’s perennially sour face had assumed an expression of disgust that would have made any portrait painter swear off his art for ever. He leaned as far back in his seat as he could, clearly unwilling to let himself be touched by the smoke binding his associate.
‘Mahadev,’ Dasaratha demanded. ‘What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to prove by this demonstration?’
‘Forgive me for resorting to this theatrical device, maharaj,’ Vishwamitra replied calmly. ‘It was necessary to demonstrate the extent to which the Lord of Lanka has corrupted the proud population of the Arya nations. The smoke you see is in fact the power of Brahman made visible for your benefit. The mantra I spoke instructed it to seek out and expose those corrupted by the Lord of Lanka. These eleven mortals captured in its divine grasp are nothing more than acolytes and minions of Ravana himself.’