‘What is the name and source of this stream, mahadev?’ Lakshman asked.
The seer continued to stare at the horizon, his white beard and hair ablaze with the fiery shades of sunset. ‘It is a diversion of the Sarayu, Rajkumar Lakshman. I diverted it myself some six hundred years past, in order to provide sustenance for the rishis who inhabit this grove.’
He turned, casting a keen appraising eye over them. Rama felt himself straighten his back and keep his face moulded in a respectful expression. It wasn’t hard; he had walked many times this distance before. But his stomach growled angrily, a creature beyond his control. He hoped the seer hadn’t heard the growl.
The mage finished appraising them, gesturing at the river. ‘You are sullied by your journey. Cleanse yourselves in the purifying waters of Sarayu, and perform your sandhyavandana with complete sincerity. After that, I will convey to you the twin maha-mantras of Bala and Atibala. Come, waste no more time; your ancestor Surya grows impatient to leave this part of the land and visit his dominions on the far side of Prithvi.’
Rama joined his palms together. ‘Jaise aagya, gurudev.’
As you command, great guru.
The two princes waded out into the stream. It was surprisingly cool and fragrant, and as he washed the dirt of the road from his face, Rama felt instantly refreshed. Thus far, the journey hadn’t been half as bad as he had anticipated. And if the guru meant what he said, he would be receiving two of the greatest mantras any Kshatriya could aspire to know.
What do you mean, if he meant what he said? Of course he meant what he said; a seer doesn’t make false promises
. He took his acamana the three prescribed times, softly chanting the mantras of the sandhyavandana or evening worship, thanking the sun-god for nourishing the world this past day and expressing his eagerness to see Surya at the dawning once more. When he was done, he found himself hoping the seer had plans for them to eat before long.
From the riverbank, Vishwamitra watched the two princes perform their evening ritual. He admired the way they moved with perfect synchronicity, Lakshman’s actions mirroring his elder brother’s. They had kept their weapons on their backs as was the custom during forays into hostile territory. He could have told them to leave the rigs and swords on the bank; no enemy would attack them here. But it was better to let them follow their Kshatriya training. Guru Vashishta’s teachings at his gurukul were the basis of their world view. Soon, the young rajkumars would be flung headlong into events beyond the ken of their wildest imaginings, and it was important that they be allowed to cling to some of their childhood beliefs.
A part of him thought differently. There were limits to even Guru Vashishta’s knowledge after all; the great seer still clung to the ancient ways. To face and survive the challenges that lay ahead, the ancient ways would not be nearly sufficient. They would merely be the basis on which he must build a new, more effective defence.
As he watched them perform their ablutions, Vishwamitra felt the faintest twinge of sadness at the obstacles and challenges these two young boys would soon face. They were barely out of boyhood; they deserved a few more years of youthful carelessness. Why, he himself had enjoyed these very years to the hilt, squeezing out every last pleasure to be had in his adolescent days. The rajkumars did not deserve the harsh burden that he was about to lay on their smooth shoulders. But he had no other recourse. There were forces at work now that were far greater than any seer could hope to control. Vashishta had understood that and supported him explicitly. This was not just a matter of two young princes of Ayodhya; it was a crisis of history itself. And desperate times called for desperate methods. Samay had decreed that two young boys would undertake a task that even the greatest champions of yore would have feared to attempt.
The rajkumars emerged from the river, their bodies shedding golden beads in the dusky light.
Without needing to be told, they prostrated themselves at Vishwamitra’s feet to receive his ashirwaad, then sat facing him in the cross-legged lotus posture, the traditional yogic stance of shishyas receiving vidya from their guru.
They waited, their faces shining in the reflected light. He wasted no time on lectures and introductions; it was not his way. Unlike Vashishta, who used eloquence as a lubricant for the knowledge he imparted, Vishwamitra preferred to let his vidya speak for itself.
‘Empty your mind and become one with Brahman,’ he commanded. ‘The maha-mantras I am about to impart to you are the mothers of all martial knowledge. When you have received them, you will feel neither hunger nor thirst, heat nor cold, weariness nor drowsiness, pain nor discomfort. You will no longer fear any foe, neither the nameless ancient spirits that walk abroad in the ungodly hours before dawn, nor the hideous asuras that will seek your destruction in the days to come. As long as you respect and use these gifts wisely and sparingly, neither disease nor age will touch you. No enemy can attack you unawares when you are asleep or off guard, no bodily urges will overcome your wits or allow you to be seduced. Even the most ravishing apsaras of Indra’s court and the most sensuous gandharvas of the forest will not succeed in arousing your desires. The strength of your limbs will be unmatched on this earth, and none other in the three worlds will equal your vidya, your shakti and your chaturta. You will have no equal on or off the field of battle. Accept the gift of these great scientific formulae, master the use of them, deploy them wisely and sparingly, and you will be warriors among warriors, Kshatriyas from whom other Kshatriyas may learn, gurus to your varna.’
He paused, seeking their minds with his own inner eye. All it took was a deep, relaxing breath—the opposite of concentration— and the bluish-white glow of his Brahman aura sprang ablaze.
The force flowed through him with an intensity that was uplifting, intoxicating. He flowed with it, probing around the much fainter but strong young auras of the two rajkumars.
He was pleased to see how receptive and ready they were.
Guru Vashishta taught these boys well, their discipline is admirable. They desire learning fiercely, these two.
Just as the great Brahma was filled with desire at the dawn of creation— not the desire to procreate, but the desire for knowledge. The desire to be one with the universe. That was the essence of Brahman, and it was strong in these two young boys.
Opening the doorway to the innermost kernel of his consciousness, that part of himself which was no more human than any deva or asura, the gateway to Brahman, the force that was everything and nothing at once, the essence of all creation and the absence of it, the soul of all matter and the opposite of matter both at once … opening that sacred passage, he released the mahamantras. The searing blue light of Brahman blazed around the three of them, burning like a giant sapphire triangle in the dim light of dusk, consuming the two young rajkumars in an explosion of light and energy that made a thunderclap seem mild.
It was done.
From this moment on, these two young men are more than mortal. Brahma be praised.
***
From the top of the cliff, three pairs of eyes watched the two princes and their new guru seated below on the riverbank. Only one pair of eyes possessed the ability to see the frighteningly beautiful burst of Brahman power that accompanied the transference of the two maha-mantras. Even though the owner of this pair of eyes did not know exactly what had caused the show of power, she could hazard a few good guesses.
Brahman sorcery. The seer’s preparing them to face my cousins in the Bhayanak-van. Foolish sage. You do not know what you do to these innocent boys. If my cousins don’t kill them, your mantras will.
Like all rakshasas, Supanakha had no great respect for the force of Brahman or its practitioners.
She raised her head and issued a cry that was part-deer and part-rakshasi. On her left shoulder, a fresh scar marked a recently healed injury; the spot where the poacher’s arrow had struck her that morning. She lowered her head again, crept over the lip of the cliff, and began working her way downwards on all fours. In the fading dimness of the dusky twilight, her reddish-black fur blended perfectly with the rusty veins of the lohit stone.
Not forty yards to the left of the Yaksa, the two scouts of the maharaja’s Vajra looked around curiously. They were Geedhar and Doda, named after their respective totems, the jackal and the raven.
‘What in Kali’s name was that?’ Geedhar asked, his neck prickling at the loud animal cry.
Doda shrugged. ‘No idea, but don’t speak Kali’s name in these dark places, brother. You never know, she might hear and come searching to see who uses her name in vain.’
Geedhar snorted derisively, but felt a secret twinge of fear. He had heard less likely stories of the Southwoods. Although thus far he and his companions hadn’t seen much to fear, he had no doubt that great dangers lay lurking in wait in these dread forests.
‘Dhole should have reached the captain by now,’ he said, in the hope of changing the topic. Doda had a morbid turn of mind and Geedhar was in no mood to hear further dire pronouncements. Not with night falling as rapidly as a white sheet over a corpse.
‘And what will he tell him? That there’s no cart-path through the thicket? And even if there were, how would our horse and wheel go down this slope? Or for that matter, how will we?’
‘The seer and the rajkumars went down easily enough,’ said Geedhar.
‘Twas still light then. In a few minutes it will be as dark as your mother’s womb. How are we to do it then?’
‘We wait until dawn. Ananga-ashrama is across the stream, in Kama’s Grove. The seer and the rajkumars must mean to camp the night there. We wait here until dawn. At first light, we go down.’
Doda mumbled something incomprehensible, then chewed his betel-leaf-and-tobacco silently for a moment. He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice to one side and nodded.
‘First light, then,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘You take first watch while I get some shut-eye.’
Geedhar didn’t argue. He wouldn’t have objected if his companion had asked him to stand watch all night. He didn’t think he was going to get much sleep tonight. Not after that last animal cry. What was that anyway? Some kind of vixen? Somehow, he didn’t think so.
***
The princes tried wading across the stream in the fading twilight. It was their third attempt to find a crossing point. Once again, they were forced to turn back. Though shallow and weak, the rivulet was still twice the depth of a man’s height. They emerged dripping and bowed to the brahmarishi.
‘Gurudev, the only way across is to swim.’ Lakshman indicated the width of the stream. ‘It is only a few yards across.’
The brahmarishi remained immobile, staring up at the western sky, now streaked with the hues of sunset. ‘It is after sundown, Rajkumar Lakshman. I prefer not to immerse myself in running water after Surya’s last kiran leaves the prithvi.’
Lakshman looked at Rama, confused. ‘Kintu, gurudev, it is the only way across.’
The brahmarishi turned his attention to Rama, staring silently at him. Rama’s eyes met his and something passed between them. Lakshman saw it and sensed a glimmer of what had happened.
The guru just showed him another way we can cross the river
.
He had no idea how he had understood this, but he had.
Rama turned silently and walked to the edge of the cliff. A tree-trunk lay fallen there, battered from its long descent down the craggy cliffside. Its roots and lower branches were withered and cracked, sticking up into the air like the limbs of some overturned insect. Lakshman frowned as he watched Rama climb up to the large boulder on which the trunk lay at a diagonal angle. Rama glanced up and down the length of the tree briefly. It was perhaps seven or eight yards long at the trunk, and about a yard thick.
‘Bhai? What do you …’
His voice died away.
Rama had bent down and was grasping hold of the trunk. He put his arms around it, grappling it firmly. Then, as Lakshman watched in astonishment, he heaved and stood upright again.
Holding the tree in his arms. The way a hay-farmer might hold up a bale of threshed straw.
Rama leaped off the boulder, landing on the ground with a thump that Lakshman felt reverberate through his own bones. The tree stuck out for yards to either side of his slender form: it was at least ten times his mass, and as many times his weight.
It must weigh half a ton if it weighs a kilo
, Lakshman thought, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Rama carried the dead tree over to the rivulet. He braced himself on some submerged stones at the stream’s edge, the water splashing lightly around his ankles. Then he raised the tree in his arms, like a weightlifter jerking his ironrod above his head. For a moment, he stood silhouetted against the darkening dusk sky, an impossibly small ant bearing an incredibly large splinter of sugarcane. He threw the tree into the river. It landed with a noisy splash, splattering water fifteen yards to every side, a few drops falling on Lakshman’s head like a blessing.