‘Prayer?’ Shatrugan’s voice expressed his disbelief.
‘Forgive my asking, gurudev. But will prayer truly help Father now? If I pray long and hard enough, will Yamaraj, Lord of Death, spare his life for another twenty years? Or forty?’
The guru looked sharply at Shatrugan. Bharat saw a spark of fire blaze in the brahmarishi’s eyes.
‘I will permit your lapse this time, young Shatrugan, because I empathise with the turmoil you are experiencing. But never again question so fundamental a practice as prayer. If every Arya, swayed by a momentary personal crisis, lost sight of his faith, this entire nation and all the Arya nations with it would be condemned to eternal damnation. You consider yourself strong, do you, Shatrugan? Then prove your strength of spirit as well as body, mann as well as tann. Keep control of your emotions and your tongue. You cannot put out a fire by adding the oil of your own anger into the flames.’
Shatrugan’s rage melted away, washed clean by the guru’s verbal lashing. Bharat resisted the urge to move away, to avoid being included in the guru’s reprimanding. Instead, he stood closer to his brother, supporting Shatrugan with his presence.
Shatrugan relented. He folded his hands and bowed his head to the guru. ‘Shama, gurudev. Forgive me. I forgot myself.’
The guru nodded brusquely, acknowledging the apology. ‘You asked about prayer, young Shatrugan. About how it can help your father. I did not propose you pray for his recovery. His condition is beyond reprieve. Whatever is happening to him now is his own karma manifesting itself. Nay, I asked you to pray for your own sake.’
Shatrugan looked perplexed. ‘For my sake?’
‘Yes. Prayer cleanses the soul at a time of crisis and prepares us to meet and face any challenge. Turn your harmful negative energy into the positive power of prarthana. Pray not for your father, rajkumar. Pray that you may accept the inevitability of his passing with grace and fortitude.’
The guru whisked away down the long empty corridor, his words hanging in the air like echoes in a cavern.
Bharat and Shatrugan exchanged a glance. Shatrugan looked down, embarrassed. Bharat squeezed his shoulder.
‘Let’s go see Father now.’
Shatrugan shook his head. ‘You go ahead, bhai. I … I need some time to come to terms with this.’
He touched his naming thread, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a rudraksh mala and he was counting off prayers. ‘I think I’ll take guruji’s advice. I’ll be at the mandir praying if you need me.’
Bharat watched Shatrugan walk slowly down the corridor.
We each have to deal with life in our own individual ways. Brothers we may be, but we are separate individuals too. Even seemingly identical sections of an apple contain different numbers of seeds. Each of us has a different course ahead. We must find our own separate ways, wherever they may lead.
He turned and went into his father’s chambers. Serving girls stood about whispering nervously. They leaped to alertness as he passed by. He reached the innermost chamber, his father’s sleeping room. As he parted the drapes, he paused. It occurred to him that the guru had spoken as wisely as always. His own first reaction had been anger too. But his anger had passed much more quickly than Shatrugan’s. Now, he was only afraid. Very afraid.
The room was surprisingly bright, illuminated by hundreds of little clay diyas. They were arrayed in rows around the room, covering every available surface. It was the precise opposite of the dimly lit sickroom Bharat had expected. He blinked, surprised.
‘He fears the dark. His vision is dimming and he wants it to be as bright as possible.’
Kausalya-maa smiled at him from the bedside, sensing his confusion. She was sitting beside the head of the maharaja’s bed, on a simple padded stool, a daubing cloth in her hand. Dasaratha seemed to be fast asleep, his face ashen and strained, but at rest.
Bharat nodded. Kausalya-maa was still dressed in the sari she had worn to the Holi parade. She had not had an opportunity to change all day, choosing to spend every minute by the maharaja’s bedside. It made him feel guilty, not for himself, but for his mother, who had stormed angrily back to her own chambers and hadn’t shown her face since the encounter in the Seers’ Tower.
Although, he remembered unhappily, Susama-daiimaa had commented on the huge dinner the second queen had ordered to her private chambers. Evidently his father’s condition hadn’t affected his mother’s appetite in the slightest. And here was Kausalya-maa, whom he knew hadn’t touched a morsel or sipped so much as water since his father’s collapse.
He knelt by her side, touching her feet. ‘Maa, shama.’
Forgive me, Mother
.
Kausalya didn’t click her tongue or make any false protestations as most elders customarily did.
Instead, she placed her arms on Bharat’s shoulders and said gently, ‘You have done nothing that needs forgiving, my son.’
He looked up at her. She looked so gentle, so calm. He wished suddenly that he had been born as Kausalya’s son rather than Kaikeyi’s. ‘I heard her calling out to Father, shouting at the servants. I had seen him go up to the Tower minutes before, he does that sometimes when he needs to be alone. I told her he was up there. Only after she ran up the stairs did I realise she was carrying the spear. I followed her thinking she might not be in her full senses.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t know she would go so far, say such awful things.’ He averted his eyes. ‘I can’t believe she threatened Father and you with violence.’
Again, Kausalya didn’t sigh, make noises of commiseration or otherwise dilute the intensity of Bharat’s words. He understood and appreciated that greatly; it had been hard for him to say that much. It still felt like betrayal, to speak about his mother when she wasn’t present. But he had felt compelled to explain, to try and make Kausalya-maa see that he hadn’t known what was going to happen. If he had, he would have never told his mother where the maharaja had gone.
Especially after he had seen Kausalya go up to the Tower as well.
‘We cannot control the actions of others, Bharat. Each of us makes our own choices, creates our own karma. You are not responsible for your mother’s actions. Don’t carry her burden of guilt on your shoulders.’
He nodded. He knew what she said was wise and true. Yet the pain in his chest remained, like a chip of wood he had swallowed and which was now lodged in the space between his heart and his ribs. It throbbed with every beat of his life-blood, sending needles of anguish through his being. He clenched his fist, squeezing his father’s bedspread.
Kausalya laid her hand on his fist. ‘Be strong, Bharat. Your father needs you. Kosala needs you. All will be well as long as you remember who you are and what your dharma is. The rest is beyond any mortal’s grasp. Free your mind of all guilt or regret. You have done nothing but honour your father and your line. Dasaratha and I have nothing but pride and love for you, putra.’
At the last word, his heart caught in his chest. He felt the chip of wood burst into flame, searing his insides, turning his blood to lava.
She called me putra. Son. My mother treats me like a contemptible stranger, treats Kausalya-maa with such loathing and disrespect, and yet she calls me putra. She regards me as a son. This is my true mother. She must be. Who else would show such love and kindness to the son of her arch-enemy? She is the one I must turn to for guidance through this time of crisis.
He bent down and caught hold of her feet again, clasping them tightly, holding on to her as if he would never let go.
‘Maa,’ he said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Maa.’
Mother
.
In the depths of his fever-sleep, Dasaratha stirred briefly, eyes fluttering without opening. He subsided again in an instant. His face was more restful, as if his soul had found some little peace in the midst of his suffering.
***
Guru Vashishta and Sumantra were in the seal room when Mantri Jabali burst in. The minister’s usually immaculately groomed hair and dress were dishevelled and splattered with stains. He was out of breath and gasping as if he had run a mile or two.
‘Mahadev, Pradhan-Mantriji, forgive the intrusion …’ He broke down, sobbing. ‘Something is happening in the dungeons! Please come. Now!’
TEN
‘Ananga-ashrama is the last peaceful place you will find on your southward journey, rajkumar. Alas, you will find none of these gentle attractions as you proceed south of this point. Beds of darbha grass and sour berry juice will seem like palace comforts after tonight. My heart aches to imagine what trials and tribulations may lie in store for you two young rajkumars in the next few days. Especially—’
He broke off, glancing up at the sage. ‘But it is not my business to speak of those matters. By Shiva’s grace, you are in the hands of the venerable Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. He is your guru now. And you should count yourselves blessed that after being raised on the infinite wisdom of Guru Vashishta, one of the oldest and most venerated of the Seven Seers, you are now being tutored by yet another of the same septet, the youngest and most powerful seer in this age, Vishwamitra himself. May his infinite wisdom guide you well on your perilous journey. For none have gone the way you go and returned this way alive before.’
Rishi Adhranga shuddered briefly, although there was no wind and it was warm by the fire. ‘None who were mortal.’
He was silent after that, staring into the fire for several more moments, stroking his beard. When more time had passed than seemed intended, and the youngest brahmacharya, Dumma, had begun to shift impatiently, one of the older brahmacharyas spoke quietly in his guru’s ear. Rishi Adhranga blinked and looked up at Rama again. ‘Excuse my lack of manners. We of Anangaashrama are unaccustomed to the social niceties befitting such honourable company. You asked me how is it possible that this grove remains so idyllic and tranquil even though it borders on the dread Bhayanak-van, or to use its modern name, the Southwoods. To know this, you must first know the history of Ananga-ashrama and the grove in which it stands. By your grace, I will tell this tale. It is a short one.’
He permitted himself a small smile. ‘Short, that is, by our standards.’ The smile was mirrored all around the fire. ‘And one you might perhaps have heard in brief from your Guru Vashishta. For this grove is more widely known as Kamaashrama and the tale is often told as that of Kama’s Folly.’
Lakshman spoke up, sounding surprised. ‘But Kama’s Folly is the place where Shiva destroyed Lord Kama. That’s a myth.’
‘Indeed, Rajkumar Lakshman. Over time, truth becomes fact, fact is rewritten as history, history fades to legend, and eventually, legend remains as myth. Yet you are blessed. For you live in the Treta-Yuga, the Age of Reason. Not as blessed as the Satya-Yuga or Age of Truth, but close enough that you may still tread the same sites where devas once lived and loved and fought, and those tales you call myths were once living events as real as your own actions. Over time even these tales will fade from memory, and by the coming of the Kali-Yuga or Age of Darkness, they will be mere race-memories, dismissed as mythology or fantasy by those who believe themselves rational and scientific. Yet to us who live here and now, these
are
scientific and rational tales. For they obey the scientific rules of our world without exception. All you need is a proper knowledge of our science. Or, as we Aryas name it, vidya.’
He smiled sadly, looking into the fire. ‘But I digress once again. Forgive these little wanderings of mine. We rishis of the order of Shiva have vowed our lives to the worship and contemplation of the Destroyer. Katha-vidya, or the science of tale-telling, is an important and precious part of our calling. You might even say it is our only wealth, and if stories are treasure, why, then we are rich men, every one of us here. Are we not, my good rishis?’
‘Rich men!’ they responded with one voice. It was evidently a favourite call and response.
‘To return to my katha, then. As I said, this hermitage which we call Ananga-ashrama is one and the same as the mythic place you know as Kama-ashrama. We call it Ananga-ashrama for a very good reason which you will know by the time I am finished. My katha dates back to the time after the creation, when devas lived on Prithvi, back in the morning of the first day of Brahma, also known as the Satya-Yuga, for all was innocent and uncorrupted then. Brahmacharyas, do you know how long is a day of Brahma?’
Dumma, the youngest, was the first to speak, his lips still glistening with drying berry juice.
‘Pranaam, guruji. Each day of Brahma consists of 2,160,000,000 of our solar years. When Brahma has created the world, it remains unaltered for this entire period. At the end of a single day of Brahma, the world and all it contains is consumed by fire, only the brahmarishis, devas and elements surviving. Brahma then sleeps for an unknown period of time. When he awakens once more, he again creates the world, and a new day of Brahma begins. When he completes a hundred of his years in this manner, Brahma’s own existence ends, and he, the universe, the devas and sages and all else are resolved into their constituent elements.’