Guru Vashishta said kindly, ‘Go home, good Jabali. Brew yourself some hot broth and cover yourself well. You are suffering from shock. We will deal with this matter. Tomorrow, in the light of day, we shall speak again.’
Jabali bowed, his head striking the bars inadvertently. ‘Thank you, gurudev. I shall pray for your safe return.’
As they went through the second portal gate, the one that opened directly on to the stairwell, and began their descent, Sumantra looked back. Jabali was clinging to the bars of the first portal with the desperate look of a man imprisoned for life. Or a man watching his best friend being imprisoned for life. The bars created a curiously confusing image: it was difficult to tell if they were keeping the prisoners within or barring those who lay without.
The stairwell was barely large enough for a single man to pass through at a time. The warden, the tallest of them, led the way with a small diya in his hand to provide some light. The ceiling was so low, they had to bow their heads, and even so, Sumantra could feel the stones rasping against the back of his head all the way down. It was a safety feature typical of Arya military architecture: in the event of an outbreak, a single armed guard could contain an entire dungeon filled with criminals. It was impossible to fight one’s way upwards with one’s head bent over and arms clasped on one’s chest. But under the circumstances, it felt even more unsettling, like a descent in some nightmare.
After what seemed like a small aeon, they reached the dungeon level. Another door opened directly on to the stairwell, providing yet another point of defence.
The warden unlocked this door and paused, glancing back at the guru and Sumantra, his face lit eerily from below by the flickering diya held in his palm.
‘I have vacated the guards from this level. After the first two were killed, I did not deem it necessary to risk the lives of any more. In any case, the prisoners … whatever that thing is … it does not seem to seek to escape.’
Sumantra frowned.
Whatever that thing is
. There were eleven spies taken prisoner that morning. What was this thing he spoke of? And what did he mean,
it does not seem to seek to escape?
What other problem could one have with a prisoner?
He held his questions back as the warden led them out of the constricting stairwell and into a slightly broader and higher passageway. Still it was barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast—shoulder to shoulder—and the ceiling was a shade under seven feet high. The warden’s bulk almost filled the entire passageway as he led them down a sloping corridor that continued to descend in stages, like very long steps in some unending staircase.
Sumantra tried to recall how low the dungeon was. About fifty yards below street level, if he remembered correctly. The architects had had to burrow this low to get well beneath the river’s bed. Even so, the ceiling dripped in places, and centuries of constant seepage had formed a permanent patina of moss on most walls. The place smelled dank and wet. The small mashaals that hung on the walls at intervals sputtered in the drips from the ceiling. For a moment, Sumantra forgot what had brought them here and began to worry about the possibility of the whole place collapsing and the river coming roaring through.
Gradually the passage broadened enough to allow them to walk slightly more comfortably two abreast. The seepage reduced. The walls seemed almost dry, although fingers of lichenous growth still poked their way through between stones at places.
Finally they came to a barred door that hung open. The inside of the door was spattered with more of the same dark stains that had discoloured Mantri Jabali’s clothes. The floor was streaked with blood too, as if a bleeding carcass had been dragged across it.
The warden stopped and turned to them, his face pale. ‘My second man dragged himself as far as this point. The key snapped off in the lock, as you can see here, so I had no choice but to leave this door open. That one, though,’ he pointed ahead, ‘is barred, bolted and locked shut. Not that it would do much good if that thing in there put its mind to getting through. I don’t think locks and doors would stop what’s in there.’
‘Thank you, good warden. You may leave us now and return to your post. We shall proceed on our own now.’
The warden looked at the guru silently. Then he nodded. ‘As you please, masters. Vishnu bless you for allowing me to save myself from entering that hell-hole again.’
He moved past them to return up the passageway they had come down. He handed his key-ring to Sumantra as he brushed past. ‘That will open the last door. Now when you come back,’ he added, his voice suggesting that the possibility was a remote one, ‘I’ll be waiting for you at the top of the stairwell. If you need any help—’
‘Do you think you could help us if we get into trouble in there?’ the guru asked quietly, indicating the dungeon.
The warden shook his head slowly. ‘I warrant not. But even so—’
‘We shall send for you if required. Go now, good warden. Leave us.’
Sumantra stepped forward. ‘One moment. Are all the eleven prisoners in there together?’
‘Aye, Pradhan-Mantri. But you may have difficulty counting them off.’
And with that cryptic reply, the warden shuffled up the passageway, fading out of sight.
Sumantra flinched as Guru Vashishta’s hand fell on his shoulder. ‘Courage, Sumantra. Remember this before we go in. The power of Brahman is the essence of all supernatural and natural energy in the universe. Even those who seek to do evil deeds must use and pervert the same flow of Brahman to serve their heinous ends. Therefore, they can never be a match for we who serve the good side of Brahman. Good will always triumph over evil in this war.’
Sumantra nodded, unable to get any words past the lump in his throat.
‘Now, open the door and let us face whatever awaits us within this dungeon,’ said the guru.
Sumantra moved forward to unlock the dungeon door. His hands shook a little as he turned the oversized key in the massive lock.
The door swung open slowly on smoothly oiled hinges, exposing a dark maw as inviting as the open jaws of a gargantuan worm.
The guru raised his staff, reciting a mantra under his breath. He struck the staff on the floor twice. With a puff, the top of the staff began to emit a dull but surprisingly effective blue light.
Holding it before him like a mashaal, the guru stepped into the dungeon chamber.
Taking a deep breath, Pradhan-Mantri Sumantra followed.
TWELVE
The rishi’s voice was as soothing as the distant gurgle of the rivulet. Rama turned to it thankfully, immersing himself in the katha to shut out the chorus of thoughts, anxieties and emotions that were crowding the back of his mind. It had been a long and difficult day and it felt good to simply sit here and listen.’
‘Tataka’s ravages were so terrible, the very land itself was blighted permanently by her forays. In time, she would have withered even the grove in which Lord Rudra sat meditating. Only his presence preserved this plot of land. On one occasion, she ventured as far as that cluster of cherry trees on the eastern edge of the grove, and—’
Vishwamitra spoke up, his voice quiet but firm. ‘I will tell them the tale of Tataka some other time, Rishi Adhranga. Pray, continue your tale of how Ananga-ashrama earned its name.’
The rishi inclined his head to the brahmarishi. ‘Shama, mahadev. I will try not to wander from my katha-path again.’
He stroked his beard a few more times, finding his rhythm once more. ‘As I was saying, Tataka’s atrocities soon grew too terrible for the devas to ignore. A day came when the extent of her devastation compelled an outcry on Prithvi and mortals began to appeal to the devas to intervene and put an end to her reign of terror. The devas sent the oldest and greatest of the Seven Seers, the great sage Narada himself, to investigate Tataka’s misdeeds. He returned quickly with a terrifying report. When the devas heard it, they unanimously decided that Tataka must be stopped.
‘But before anyone could take action, the devas were besieged by hordes of asura armies led by the Lord of Lanka, Ravana himself. After many wars and battles in which the asuras lost as much ground as they gained, their disparate races had finally united under the banner of Ravana. And his ambition was as great as the asura host he led. He sought to invade the very cities of the gods. The shining cities of Amravati and Vaikunta were both besieged, and mighty Indra, leader of the devas, as well as Kartikeya and Ganesha, senapatis of the armies of the devas, were hard-pressed to defend those mighty domains. Not a single deva could be spared to go down to the realm of Prithvi and deal with the intolerable menace of Tataka.’
The rishi paused for effect. ‘Except one.’
Young Dumma chirped up at once: ‘Rudra athwa Shiva.’
‘Yes, young brahmacharya. Rudra also known as Shiva. Only Shiva himself possessed the power to face the fierce Yaksi. For he had tasted the poison of Sagara and survived. In doing so, he alone of the devas had experienced the corruption of an-atma, the opposite of Brahman, that darkest of darknesses that exist in the absence of the light of atma or the eternal soul. Shiva could use his power of destruction to cleanse evil things, preparing the way for their re-creation by Brahma. He had only to open his third eye and Tataka would exist no more in her present form.’
‘Jai jai Shiv Shankar,’ chanted the assembled brahmacharyas in unison. Lakshman blinked at the unexpectedly loud chanting, but Rama had seen it coming. He was still focussed as much on the being in the grove as on the rishi’s katha. He wondered how Lakshman had failed to notice it. It was evident that the mahamantras Bala and Atibala were having different effects on him and Lakshman. A twinge of an insight flashed in his mind, a glimmer of an idea why this should be so. But it was gone before he could catch it and examine it clearly.
‘However, as you will recall, Shiva was deeply engrossed in his meditation and was determined to remain engrossed thus for the duration of all the remaining days of Brahma, until the end of existence itself. Such was his self-discipline. So it was decided by the devas that an emissary be sent to awaken him from his meditation. Sage Narada declined the mission, for reasons unknown. The devas then sent the beauteous Parvati, an incarnation of Sati herself, Shiva’s lost wife. Sati had chosen to be reborn once again in order to reconsummate her relationship with her beloved mate. This time, she made sure she picked a father and mother who would honour her husband, unlike the wretched Daksha, whose name was forever linked with his shameful misdeed. Sati in her new avatar as Parvati waited patiently for many thousands of our years in the grove where her lord sat meditating, gathering his favourite flowers and dressing her hair with their scented blossoms, and doing all she could to rouse him from his yogic trance. But even her sensual presence could not interrupt his samabhavimudra. So the devas resolved to send the god of desire, Kama, to help rouse Shiva.’
Rishi Adhranga paused, searching the far side of the circle for the face of his youngest acolyte. ‘Dumma, can you tell us what human quality Kama is the god of?’
‘Pranaam, guruji,’ replied the boy, struggling to speak calmly. ‘Kama is desire for good in any form. Be it love, procreation, or simply goodness on earth in all forms.’
The rishi nodded, satisfied with the response. ‘Well spoken. And yet, being the lord of sexual desire as well as all other desires, Kama was prone to some mischievous ways. When he saw Parvati clad so sensuously in anticipation of her husband’s amorous reawakening, he thought he could sling down two partridges with one throw. He would rouse Shiva by instilling in him sexual desire for Parvati, thus reuniting the lost lovers as well as fulfilling his mission. With this end in mind, Kama danced and frolicked in the grove around the tree beneath which Shiva sat.’
The rishi paused and gestured around at the clearing, giving them a moment to reflect and imagine the god of desire dancing in the very spot where they now sat.
As they glanced around, casting back to that mythic time in their mind’s eye, several of them looked deep into the dark shadows of the grove itself, trying to recreate the events and time of which their guru spoke.
Now someone will see the being in the grove. Or at least Lakshman will
. But not a single one of them seemed to glimpse what Rama had seen. The two red eyes glowed as warmly as coals in a bed of ash. Only I, he thought grimly. It is my karma to see and deal with the being that awaits me in there.
The others had turned back to the rishi, who was continuing his katha.
‘When Kama’s first frolics went unnoticed by Shiva, the god of desire grew bolder. He strung his bow, made of a sugarcane stalk and a living cord of honeybees, dipped an arrow into the centre of a red rose, and loosed it at Shiva’s heart. Pierced by the benign missile, Shiva awoke at last. But stirred as he was from deep meditation on his lost mate, he was angered to find the god of desire attempting to arrange what he thought was a new mating for him. Had Shiva only taken an instant to look closely at Parvati, he would have seen that Kama was only trying to reunite him with his own sweet Sati. But Shiva is not known for his patience. He opened his third eye and blasted Lord Kama into ashes.
Bhasam kar diya Kamadev ko
.’