‘Rama, oh Rama,’ said the seer sadly. ‘Do not speak so naïvely. I have already spent many words praising your remarkable maturity and inborn wisdom. Son of Kausalya, you know as well as I that even the most powerful force on earth can only command us. It is up to us to choose whether to obey that command or not. Even the great wheel of time that turns the universe itself does not deprive us of free will. We each have the power to choose everything we do or say. You went because you chose to go. Is it not so?’
‘Yes,’ Rama said. ‘But maha-dev—’
‘Enough!’
The seer raised his hand, showing Rama his outstretched palm in the formal gesture of conclusion.
‘I will not stand here and debate issues that even a first-year shishya at any ashram knows fully well. My duties demand I return to Siddh-ashrama. Today, we proceed northwards to Mithila, thence to the snowbound slopes of mighty Himavat, where I shall resume my bhor tapasya. If you and your brother still serve me, you will prepare to depart for Mithila the moment your morning ablutions are done. I shall be in my hut until then.’
And with those words, the brahmarishi turned and walked away, striding swiftly back towards the ashram compound.
***
Vajra Captain Bejoo was praying when he heard his name being called.
He paused in the act of touching the idol, the tips of his fingers reaching out to the small oblong-shaped black rock which represented his patron deity Shani.
It was the last stage of the daily prayer ritual he had followed every day of his life since attaining manhood. He had poured the customary offering of mustard oil over the rock, sprinkled freshly plucked spring flowers and placed a garland of herb leaves around the deity. All that remained was to break the coconut. Before the ritual he had picked a desiccated coconut from the mound that lay at the temple threshold, and stripped away the tough strands of fibre, exposing the kernel.
Now, he had only to smash the kernel on the granite floor of the temple while reciting the Shani mantra, thereby sanctifying the coconut. Then he could partake of the coconut milk and the thick flesh which would have become sacred food blessed by the deva. By drinking the milk and eating the flesh, Bejoo would have partaken of the god’s essence, gaining not just his blessing but also his strength and courage in battle.
Shani, whom the Greek envoys to the Arya nations called Saturn, was the patron deity of charioteers. And for Bejoo, captain of a Vajra unit built chiefly on the swift striking ability of chariots, it was unthinkable to start a day without completing this simple but vital ritual. He had performed it on battlefields far from home, with malarial fever searing his brain, with the cries of his wounded and dying men filling the forest for miles around, with the screams and shrieks of charging asuras ringing in his ears, through the worst of times and the best of times. He would not miss it today, not for some foolish soldier who didn’t know well enough to wait until his commander was done with his morning prayers.
What could be so urgent anyway? They were in Siddhashrama, the most peaceful sanctuary in all the seven Arya nations, under the protection of the seer-mage Vishwamitra. There was no general alarm, no other indication that they were under attack or in any kind of danger. So why was this fool persisting in calling out Bejoo’s name when he could see he was in the temple?
As if on cue, the voice rang out again, much closer this time.
‘Bejoo,’ the man said. ‘Captain, you must listen to me.’
Bejoo resisted the urge to tell the man to go drown himself in the nearest well. It wouldn’t do to lose his famously short temper when saying his prayers.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the annoying voice, and raised the coconut kernel above his head.
‘Bejoo, it’s Bheriya. In the name of our friendship, I beg you, listen to me.’
Bejoo lowered his hands slowly. He placed the coconut on the mandap before the deity. Prostrating himself once again, he touched his forehead to the edge of the mandap then rose to his feet, keeping his hands joined and his eyes shut, and slowly backed away. When he was at least three yards away, he allowed himself to turn. His hand reached out and struck the temple bell with an instinct born of sheer habit, even though he hadn’t actually finished his ritual. He came down the steps of the Shani temple and looked around.
There was nobody in sight.
‘Bheriya?’ he called out, puzzled and irritated now. ‘Where in the three worlds are you, man?’
There was no reply. He frowned, on the verge of losing his temper. Why the devil had Bheriya come back here anyway? He should have been in Ayodhya by now, Bejoo’s message duly delivered to Maharaja Dasaratha, and then, if he had no other duties, he should have gone home to his new bride, trying to make little Bheriyas to carry his name!
‘Bejoo, listen to me.’
Bejoo swung around. The Shani temple was a small one, located in a thicket of neem and other assorted herb trees. It was where the rishis of the ashram grew the medicinal herbs and conducted their Ayurvedic research into new cures for various ailments. It was here that they grew the world-famous herbs that were said to cure the diabetic condition, among other miraculous natural herbal cures. Bejoo was alone here this morning; all the other residents of the ashram were busy packing their wagons in preparation for the journey to Mithila. Even his own men were engaged in their morning exercises, on his own orders. He scanned the neat rows of neem trees stretching away in all directions for several hundred yards, but couldn’t see hide nor hair of any living soul.
‘What are you up to, Bheriya? Playing hide-and-seek with me? We’re too old for games. Show yourself, man.’
‘Bejoo.’ The voice came from behind him this time. Bejoo swung around, startled. He stared into the shadowy recesses of the stone temple. How could Bheriya have got past him and into the temple? This was the only way in, and the steps on which he stood were barely a yard wide. Even the wind-god Vayu couldn’t have got past Bejoo without his sensing it.
‘Bejoo, please. Time is short. Don’t worry that you can’t see me. Just listen. I have something very important to tell you.’
Bejoo ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Baldness was a bane of his family’s male lineage. He was comparatively lucky. His father and grandfather had been bald as marble statues by the time they hit thirty. He still had some of his hair intact. He felt the hackles on the back of his neck prickle as he looked warily around the deserted Shani temple.
‘Bheriya, I don’t know what you’re up to, but this is no time or place to be playing childish pranks.’
‘Bejoo! In the name of Shani-deva, heed my words. The Lord of Lanka has stolen my body and infused it with another man’s aatma. The Bheriya that is making his way to Ayodhya even as we speak is not me. He is a twice-lifer serving the king of asuras. His mission is to spread false information at the court of Maharaja Dasaratha and distract the maharaja and his generals from the coming invasion.’
Bejoo reached for his sword, then remembered belatedly that he never wore it to temple. He cursed himself for not keeping it by the temple steps. Living at Siddh-ashrama for eight days had made him soft.
‘Bheriya, I still don’t understand how you’re perpetuating this foolhardy prank. But Holi is over, and the time for spring-day jokes is past. Show yourself now, son, and let’s not have this kind of crazy talk.’
The temple bells rang.
Bejoo started, almost losing his footing and tumbling backwards down the narrow steps. Recovering, he caught the crumbling wall and stared up at the two pillars at the top of the stairs. Several bells of different sizes and heights hung between them. All the bells were ringing before his very eyes, their loud brassy peals deafeningly loud. He could actually see them slowing down then swinging out abruptly, just as if someone were ringing each of them one by one, reaching the end of the row, then starting over with the first one again.
But there was nobody standing beneath the bells!
Bejoo raced up the steps. He never paused to think that any force that could ring temple bells without visible physical means might also be capable of doing him bodily harm. He was a Vajra Kshatriya. It was his job to make forays into the heart of enemy territory and probe the enemy’s weaknesses and strengths. Suffering bodily harm was a part of his job description.
He reached the top of the steps in a fraction of a second. He now stood directly below the swinging bells. He reached up, moving his hands this way, then that, feeling for strings or any other means of trickery. But the air around the bells was empty. They were suspended from an iron rod fixed between the pillars, not fixed in the ceiling itself, which precluded the possibility of hidden devices. In any case, he doubted very much that the rishis of Siddh-ashrama would rig their Shani temple with cheap conjuror’s devices.
And yet the bells rang on.
Bejoo sank to his knees. He turned his gaze to the mandap at the far end of the temple, folding his hands and invoking his patron deity’s name again. ‘Om Shani Namah,’ he said. ‘Protect and preserve us, my lord.’
The bells stopped pealing. When the voice spoke again it seemed to come from right beside Bejoo.
‘Have no fear, Bejoo. I am in the spirit world now, but I am still Bheriya. I would never do anything to cause you harm. I have come only to help you.’
Bejoo reached out and touched the empty space where the voice seemed to be coming from. His fingers met only air.
He hesitated, taking the final leap of faith that was needed for him to accept the fact that he was speaking to a ghost. ‘If you’re in the spirit world, Bheriya, then that would mean that you’re … ‘
‘Dead. Yes, Bejoo. We were ambushed last night, at the foot of the South Cliff. It was a rakshasi, a very powerful one. She tore into us like a whirlwind.’
Bejoo nodded. He was accustomed to news of sudden death. Although hearing of Bheriya’s unexpected demise was more than a little unsettling for reasons beyond professional regret, he kept his reaction to himself. He would deal with that later. ‘And what you just told me, about Ravana using your body to infiltrate Ayodhya … ‘ He paused. ‘What did you say exactly?’ He hadn’t paid much attention the first time around. Now, his head throbbed with concentration as he tried to catch every syllable spoken by the disembodied aatma of his erstwhile lieutenant.
Bheriya said slowly, ‘My re-animated body is possessed by a malevolent aatma who does Ravana’s bidding. He is on his way to Ayodhya right now, carrying false information designed to distract our king and his generals and point them away from the real threat that approaches.’
‘And this threat is … ?’
‘A full-scale asura invasion.’
Bejoo swallowed. ‘If what you say is true, then I should ride back to Ayodhya at once, intercept this imposter and warn our king and the army in time to prepare for the invasion. That is why you … ‘ He searched for the appropriate word. Knowing how best to address spirits was not part of his martial experience. ‘Why you returned,’ he said at last. ‘You wished to warn me to take action to prevent this from happening. Isn’t it? Bheriya?’
But there was no reply. Just the stony silence of the temple and the usual early-morning sounds of birds and insects in the grove outside. And the faint whistling of wind through a crack in the temple wall somewhere.
Bejoo rose slowly to his feet. ‘Bheriya?’
He walked around the temple, calling out his former lieutenant’s name several times.
He felt foolish. Had he imagined the whole thing? Had he finally grown senile, succumbed to his old war injuries?
The only sound he heard in response was the faint whistling of wind.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Wind? There was no wind here. It was as still as a becalmed warship in a dead strait.
He sought out the sound of the whistling. It was coming from the deity of Shani itself.
Bejoo swallowed nervously as he folded his hands once more and knelt before the deva’s symbolic stone effigy. As he bowed his head, he could hear the faint disembodied voice coming from somewhere in the region of the idol. It sounded like words called out down a long narrow underground passage.
‘ … no time … return to the afterworld now … speak … again … later.’
‘Bheriya? If what you say is true then I must leave for Ayodhya at once. This is more important than my mission to protect the rajkumars, isn’t it?’
He immediatedly felt foolish. Although he had accepted the unlikely premise that he was in communication with Bheriya’s ghost, surely he was expecting too much in asking questions of the spirit.
‘Do you agree, Bheriya? Is there anything else I should know before leaving for Ayodhya?’
There was a long silence, during which Bhejoo felt progressively more uneasy and foolish as he waited with his head bowed, listening carefully. ‘Bheriya?’
After what seemed like several more minutes, he was on the verge of giving up and leaving the temple to start preparations for the trip to Ayodhya. But just at the instant when he was about to rise to his feet again, the voice returned, fainter than ever and obviously fading.
‘Bejoo … don’t go … Ayodhya … Rama and Lakshman in danger … accompany them … Mithila.’