‘What can a fifteen-year-old boy do against such creatures? Rakshasas, no less! Rama is fresh from the gurukul, barely of marriageable age. He should be out right now playing Holi with his brothers and friends, enjoying the prime of his youth, celebrating the spring of his life. Not listening to this weary debate. He is too young for such matters. He is no more fit to fight Ravana’s two strongest demons than I am to fight Ravana himself at my age and in this condition!’
‘He may surprise you yet, raje. After all, he is your son.’
Dasaratha shook his head vehemently. ‘Do not persist in this exorbitant demand, mahadev. I beg of you! Today, at the spring feast, I am to announce his succession. In less than one fortnight, on his sixteenth naming day, he will be crowned heir to the throne of Ayodhya. Have a care for his future if not for his youth.’
‘I care a great deal about his future, Ayodhya-naresh. That is why I promised you that I would bring him back safe and sound before the date of the coronation. You have my word on it, the word of one of the Seven Seers.’
Dasaratha seemed on the verge of crying out. He controlled himself with an effort and said in a voice that was only one level above a broken-down sob: ‘Shama, mahadev. Ask of me anything other than this. I cannot give you my first-born. Take anything you will from me, but not my Rama.’
This time the brahmarishi’s response was a long time coming. Rama saw that the seer had reached the end of his patience. Vishwamitra’s features had hardened into a mask of grim anger. At that moment, he looked more like the king he once was than a man of God. He took a step towards the dais and raised his staff.
‘So be it then, Dasaratha. I have no more business here. I take my leave. Good day.’
Vishwamitra turned, carrying his raised staff, and proceeded up the hall with long, decisive strides. Nobody else moved or spoke. They all seemed frozen.
He’s leaving,
Rama thought,
without his guru-dakshina
. It was a violation of everything he had been taught since childhood. Rama’s brothers looked at each other nervously. Sumantra set down the goblet and spittoon he was holding, and fell to his knees, praying. Even without hearing the words, Rama knew that the pradhan-mantri was invoking the Holy Trinity to protect them all from the krodh of the great seer-mage. Entire nations had been wiped out by the holy curse of brahmarishis for less cause than Dasaratha had just given.
Guru Vashishta stepped forward, his eyes blazing at Dasaratha, before turning to call out to Vishwamitra. The departing seer-mage was almost at the doors when the guru spoke.
‘Brahmarishi Vishwamitra,’ he called. ‘I entreat you, stay a moment. This matter is not done yet. There are still words left to be spoken.’
Vishwamitra paused, but didn’t set his staff on the ground. Without turning around fully, he said over his shoulder: ‘I have heard all the words that matter. Nothing more remains to be said.’
‘In the name of our shared status as brahmarishis, I request you earnestly, come back to the dais. Give us but a moment to confer. To leave thus would be a great insult to the honour of the house Suryavansha and the clan Ikshvaku.’
‘Any insult here was given by your maharaja. It was my honour that was sullied. Now he must live with the consequences of his decision.’ Vishwamitra took another step towards the doors, but the guru’s voice made him pause again.
‘Then pray, give me but a moment to repair those insults and undo this mistake. For it is a mistake, I assure you. The house of Suryavansha is known for its munificence. Dasaratha’s own ancestor Maharaja Harishchandra gave away his entire wealth as guru-dakshina. And noble Raghu had already bankrupted his royal treasury by gifting all he owned to one rishi when he was called upon by another to deliver a fabulous sum as guru-dakshina. Raghu obtained the amount from Kuber, Lord of Wealth, and fulfilled his sacred obligation for the second time. The seat of Ayodhya has ever been known for its adherence to dharma.’
Vishwamitra partly turned his body, his eyes diamond-bright in the shadow of an ornate marbled pillar. ‘Your words contradict those of your king, great guru. Look! Even now he sits there silent while you implore me on his behalf.’
Guru Vashishta turned to look at the maharaja.
Dasaratha’s face was filled with such despair and pain, Rama could hardly bear to look at his father.
‘Ayodhya-naresh,’ the guru said, ‘and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. Both of you have reached an impasse. One asserts the right of a Brahmin to demand dakshina from a Kshatriya. The other asserts the right of a father to preserve the life of his son. This debate could rage for ever without an end. Nor would I have you fling insults at one another.’
‘What would you have us do, guruji?’ asked Dasaratha in a sobered tone. Rama could empathise with his father’s dilemma: he was torn between his concern for Rama and his desire to fulfil his dharma. ‘Pray, give us the fruit of your wisdom.’
Vashishta spread his hands wide, indicating the empty sabha hall. ‘When Manu Lawmaker, the first maharaja of Kosala, was crowned, in this very chamber, and on that very sunwood throne, he laid down two laws by which he would govern. Those two laws determine all life-and-death decisions in Ayodhya even today. Rajkumar Rama, would you tell us what those two laws are?’
‘The first law is to obey dharma at all costs,’ Rama said promptly. ‘For dharma is the moral code by which the pillar of Arya character stands upright.’ He paused, seeing the destination of the guru’s argument even before he spoke the words. ‘The second law is that the maharaja rules not for himself, his dynasty, clan, varna or family. He rules for the people. If he takes a decision that affects the people, then it must meet with the people’s consent.’
There was silence for a moment as everyone absorbed the implications of the second rule.
When Guru Vashishta spoke again, it was in a lighter, almost mischievous tone. Rama thought he could see a playful twinkle in the ancient seer’s eyes. ‘Maharaja Dasaratha, do you deny the second law of Manu?’
Dasaratha looked puzzled. ‘Of course not, gurudev. The maharajas of Ayodhya have always ruled only at the people’s behest.’
‘Then there is the solution to your vexing dilemma. Abjure any further discussion on this matter. Proceed with the Holi ritual prayers and festivities. When you stand before the citizens of Ayodhya on the mela grounds today, confront them with the question. Let them decide if Rajkumar Rama is to go with Vishwamitra or stay here in Ayodhya. Ask Ayodhya to decide!’
In the stunned silence that followed, Rama saw the unmistakable gleam of a smile in the eyes of Vishwamitra.
TWENTY-NINE
‘Dashasu dikshu apratihatam ratham calayateeti Dasharatha.’
The chanting rose from a thousand Brahmins led by the court purohit Rishi Vamadeva. Seated cross-legged on a flat wagon drawn by a train of sixteen elephants, the Brahmins headed the procession winding its way majestically down Harshavardhana Avenue, the traditional starting point of the annual parade. A boy of not more than seven years sat at the head of the chanting Brahmins, his shaven pate decorated with caste marks in the shape of a Shiva lingam, an appeasement to the god of destruction that he might allow this moving machine to pass unharmed. The elephants trumpeted at varying intervals, punctuating the chanting of the Sanskrit slokas praising Maharaja Dasaratha. The wagon bearing the Brahmins was a little less than three yards wide and twenty yards long, rolling on eighty wheels each a yard high. The crowd lined up along the sides of the avenue were kept back safely by silken ropes held by PFs in full battle regalia but unarmed. The order to shelve weapons had been given by Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra after hearing the story of the near-riot on Raghuvamsa Avenue earlier that morning. Even so, the PFs still made an imposing sight, and the children watching from behind the ropes were as fascinated by their battle scars and towering stature as by the royal parade.
Among the thousands of children watching were two young vaisya girls, their packets of rangoli and pitchkarees still clutched in their hands, faces and clothes splattered and stained with a rainbow of hues. The taller of the pair, attractive in an honest, clean-featured way, seemed to have endured more rang-smearing than her partner. Her face was a bright crimson smudge relieved only by small patches of purple and indigo. From this quilt of gay colours, her bright blue eyes shone out eagerly, transfixed by the flat wagon.
‘There must be lakhs of purohits,’ her friend said excitedly. ‘Look at how perfectly they’re chanting together. That’s how Maa Prema always tells us to chant and we can never do it so well!’
‘How many times have I told you, Sreelata,’ the taller girl said impatiently. ‘A lakh is a hundred thousand. There aren’t even ten thousand purohits there, let alone a lakh!’
‘Oh,’ Sreelata said. ‘Well, I can never figure out number counting. But there certainly are a lot of bald heads on that wagon, aren’t there, Nandini?’
‘There sure are,’ Nandini agreed, smiling at her friend’s choice of words. ‘And the parade hasn’t even started yet. Just wait till you see the royal wheelhouse pass. It’s a hundred yards long, divided into four sections of twenty-five yards each, which are joined by little bridges so you can walk from one end to the other without getting out of the chariot.’
‘I thought you said it was a wheelhouse, not a chariot,’ Sreelata said, chewing on the end of her sari anxiously.
‘Yes, yes, wheelhouse,’ Nandini said. ‘And then you have to see the battle elephants. They’re so beautiful! There are lakhs of them in the royal army, but of course they can’t parade them all at once so they only bring out a few from each akshohini. That’s a division of the army. One akshohini consists of 21,870 elephants, 21,870 chariots, 65,610 horsemen and 1,09,350 foot soldiers. The army of Ayodhya has twenty-five akshohini, while another fifteen are quartered around the kingdom at various places.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Sreelata asked wide-eyed. She was constantly in awe of Nandini’s knowledge of numbers and things. It made her aware of how large and complex the world outside the temple walls really was.
‘You have to keep your ears and eyes open,’ Nandini replied mysteriously. Then she nudged her less well-informed friend affectionately, adding: ‘And keep the guardsmen talking after they finish with you. Men can talk ten times as long as they can love. That’s something you must know by now, Sreelata!’
Sreelata giggled. ‘That I do. They really can talk, can’t they? Oh, look, what’s that big chariot coming up now? The one with all the gold carvings and conch-bearers getting ready to blow their conches? Is it the royal chariot? I mean, wheelhouse?’
‘No, silly! That’s just the conch-bearer chariot. It’s the first of the royal procession. Look, they’re blowing their conches now. That’s to let us know the royal procession is coming up.’
Over the pervasive, city-filling sound of the conches, Sreelata said almost shyly, ‘Do you think we’ll see Prince Rama then?’
Nandini looked at her companion. ‘Why? Do you want to ask him to visit us at the temple?’
Sreelata punched her friend in the stomach. ‘Shut up!’ Her cheeks and neck blazed with embarrassment.
Nandini laughed delightedly. ‘So your heart is lost to Prince Rama, huh? Well, then you had better be that one-in-a-crore girl. Because he’s sworn to take only one wife in his lifetime.’
Nandini waved her hand excitedly. ‘Look down there. The elephants! The elephants are coming!’
‘What do you mean, one wife?’ Sreelata nudged her friend curiously. ‘He’s the prince-heir. He can have a thousand wives if he wants.’
Nandini glanced at her friend fondly. ‘That’s the point. He can, but he won’t. I hear he’s sworn to find just one wife.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe it has something to do with his father having too many wives! If you know what I mean.’
‘Jai Mata Ki!’ Sreelata’s mind spun with the idea. A man who sought only one mate? What a romantic notion! Suddenly she adored Prince Rama all the more for being so unattainable, so principled. A man who would only love one woman? She instantly wanted to be that woman! Although she knew the odds of a mere temple prostitute catching the eye of a prince-heir were … what was that number? One in a crore? One in a hundred crores, more likely.
Nandini released a long, shrill scream, dropping her carefully cultivated upper-class air without a second’s thought. ‘Sreelata,’ she shrieked. ‘Look! There’s the royal wheelhouse! And in the front, riding on those four horses, it’s the princes! Look, the handsome one in front with the dark, almost bluish skin, that’s Rama! Isn’t he gorgeous! Oh, I could just eat him alive!’
Sreelata joined her friend, shrieking as loud as she could, echoed by every woman, man and child in the crowd. Never mind that he was sworn to take only one mate. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?