Bejoo stared at Lakshman in disbelief. This was exactly what he had always warned his young recruits about. Prayer and rituals were all very well, but if you came too close to Brahmins, they sucked your very manhood out of you, leaving you a shell good enough only for wearing whitecloth and chanting mantras all day and night long.
‘What do you mean, dharma?’ he said now. ‘It’s your dharma to protect your home, isn’t it? What about that dharma then?’
Lakshman put a hand to his forehead, rubbing the skin between his eyes slowly, as if trying to wipe away some invisible blemish. ‘Bejoo, you don’t understand. We are oathsworn to serve Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. To disobey his desires would be to dishonour the code of the Kshatriyas and disgrace the name of Ayodhya itself.’
Bejoo snorted. ‘Horseshit and cowdung! An Arya’s duty– Shani mind me–any mortal’s duty is first to protect his family and home. Even Lawmaker Manu never said to put Brahmins before family. They are our conduits to Swargalok, I don’t deny that. But what good is heaven if we can’t defend earth? Dharma cannot demand that you sacrifice your heritage and blood-links to follow a Brahmin. Besides, what Brahmin, what guru, would demand such a sacrifice? You completed your given mission, you rid the Bhayanak-van of the asura scourge. That feat will be retold millennia hence. What more could anyone ask of two young princes, two young sons?’
Bejoo reached out a hand, clutching Lakshman’s arm. He directed his words to Rama’s profile as well. ‘Argue no more. I am not a man of words, rajkumars. I was raised on simple precepts. To love, to protect, to procreate. If a Kshatriya cannot perform these simple duties, then what else matters? Come with me, young sons of Ayodhya. Come with me and defend your homes before it is too late!’
Silence met his words. Lakshman continued rubbing the spot between his eyes. When he took his hand away, Bejoo saw that the spot had turned red and raw, like a tilak applied after a pooja. The younger prince’s eyes were misted by pain and confusion. They met Bejoo’s gaze then turned away, unable to answer the plea in his eyes. Lakshman spoke to Rama, his voice rich with emotion.
‘Rama, my brother. I leave our fate in your hands. I know that what Brahmarishi says is beyond questioning. It is his right to demand that we serve him until he feels the guru-dakshina is fully paid. Until he releases us from our oaths, we have no independent volition. It is our dharma to follow him where he wills. But listen to what Bejoo-chacha says as well. He speaks simple, honest sense. What good is dharma if we do not defend our homes? What use is a code that demands the sacrifice of all we hold dear? If the Lord of Lanka overruns our city and our kingdom, to what will we return to proclaim the fulfilment of our oaths? Who will praise our dutiful obedience of the brahmarishi’s wishes? Will anyone be left alive to celebrate our triumphs and our deeds?’
Lakshman paused to wipe a single tear from his right eye. ‘I do not tell you what we must do. I only ask that you consider both sides of the argument. That you choose. Whatever you choose for yourself, I shall follow that path as well. For I am linked to you as closely as breath to air. Where you go, there shall I go as well. If it is our dharma to follow the brahmarishi, it is my brotherly love that makes me follow you. Choose wisely, Rama, for on your choice will hinge the most fateful decision of our lives.’
NINE
First Queen Kausalya greeted Guru Vashishta with a sincere namaskar, joining her palms together and bowing her bindidotted forehead dutifully.
The seer-mage acknowledged her gesture of respect with an upraised palm, the customary response of a venerated Brahmin.
The guru was alone in his private yoga chamber in the maharaja’s palace. There were chambers such as this one set aside in every apartment in the vast palaces of Ayodhya, to allow each member of the royal family his or her own space to meditate in tranquil solitude, but the guru’s yoga chamber was unique because it wasn’t merely a room in his apartment, it was his apartment. The guru’s real home was a modest hut in his ashram in the forest north of Ayodhya, where he schooled the sons and daughters of Arya in all the science and arts of Vedic knowledge. When in the capital city, he was mostly occupied with the numerous matters of state and policy on which the maharaja and the rajya sabha of the kingdom of Kosala consulted him routinely. His rare private hours were spent in this chamber, engaged in profound meditation.
He was seated in the lotus position, feet crossed over his thighs, hands outstretched, wrists resting lightly on his knees, right hand clutching a prayer-bead necklace, his fingers continuing to count off the red beads as he mentally recited the sacred mantras even as he addressed the queen. His eyes were half closed in that unmistakable look that signified a deep meditative trance. The sage’s long, bony limbs and leanness of flesh were proud emblems of the gruelling penance that had earned him his stature as a brahmarishi, highest of all Brahmins. The hard lines of his beard-enshrouded face conveyed the immense spiritual power the guru had acquired from his millennia of transcendental devotional meditation.
Kausalya meditated too, so she knew how hard it was to achieve that level of transcendence. She couldn’t begin to fathom how the sage could maintain it while carrying on a conversation with her. Yet she could see him managing both these disparate tasks with the ease of a Mithila bowman firing arrows while astride a charging stallion. Her admiration almost made her forget the purpose of her visit. Almost, but not quite: her news was much too thrilling to forget.
‘Guru-dev,’ she said, ‘I am pleased to bring you good news. Maharaja Dasaratha’s health is improved for the first time since his collapse nine days ago. Since last evening, he has begun walking about my chambers and seems to be regaining some of his strength. Perhaps more important than these signs of physical recovery is the fact that he is speaking coherently and intelligently once again. All of us are greatly encouraged by his recovery. I wished to share our joy with you and invite you to visit him in his sick-chamber.’
She looked around the bare chamber briefly. ‘I apologise for interrupting your trance. I am aware that you have been meditating for the past eight days and left instructions you were not to be disturbed. But I felt certain you would want to hear this happy news. If I have offended you, please forgive me.’
She pressed her hands together once more. ‘Forgive my lapse, Guru-dev.’
Guru Vashishta’s face creased in an indulgent smile. His eyes focused on her gradually, taking a moment to return to the world of the here and now. ‘Good Kausalya,’ he said warmly, ‘you owe me no apology. It is for your husband’s recovery that I have undertaken this penitential fast and meditation. How could I possibly be disturbed by news that my spiritual efforts have borne such heartening results? May you be blessed with a long and happy marriage for bringing me this joyous communication.’
Kausalya bowed her head at once, touching her forehead to the guru’s folded feet. ‘May your words be heard by mighty Brahma himself.’
Vashishta touched her head and recited a verse from the Upanishads, the great repository of knowledge, wisdom and prayer created and collated by the seven great seermages of whom Vashishta was one; its hallowed contents had taken millennia of tapasya and meditation to create and compile.
The sloka was one Kausalya had never heard before. As best as she could tell, it was an invocation to warriors fighting in a just and righteous cause. Not quite the kind of verse she would have expected a seer-mage to speak to a queen-mother, but being Kausalya, she accepted the benediction gratefully, keeping her head bowed, eyes closed and palms together.
Vashishta ended with the ritual term signifying the close of any such invocation: ‘Swaha.’
When Kausalya raised her face to the guru, her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I am truly fortunate to have your blessings, great one.’
‘You are fortunate on account of your own spotless existence, mother of Rama. You have lived your entire life with a nobility truly worthy of your race. Women and men such as you embody the true meaning of the word Arya. Noble One, it means in our beautiful deva-given tongue of Sanskrit, and truly you have lived your life nobly. Even without my blessings, you shall ever be watched over and loved by all the devas, including the great creator Brahma himself. Now, pray tell me, why do you shed these tears? Are they out of joy for your beloved liege’s recovery? Or are they on account of your anxiety for your son Rama?’
Kausalya struggled to regain control of her emotions. She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her pallo. ‘Your wisdom is infinite, Guru-dev. What can I tell you that you do not already know? You have named both the causes of my outpouring of emotion. My heart is as much filled with joy for my husband’s recovery as it is pierced with anxiety for my only child. It has been nine long days, great one. And not a word has reached us yet of the outcome of Rama and Lakshman’s mission. The great Vishwamitra promised he would return with them safe and sound in time for the day of Rama’s coronation as prince-heir. That happy day is only six days away now. And still there is no news or sign of their return.’
The guru nodded sagely. He stopped counting his beads and wound the necklace around his wrist. ‘And yet six days remain. You need not fear on their account, good Kausalya. I can assure you that your son Rama and Sumitra-putra Lakshman are both safe and well at Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s Siddhashrama. Well is that sacred sanctuary named, for their mission was siddh.’
‘They were successful?’ Fresh tears flowed freely down Kausalya’s face. Her finely formed features, still retaining the beauty that had made princes and kings across the nine Arya kingdoms sigh with desire in her youth, grew radiant with happiness. ‘They are alive and well? Neither of them suffered any injury during their terrible mission?’
Guru Vashishta paused a moment before replying. The pause was uncharacteristic of him. The great seer always spoke with the eloquent ease of an actor who had not only mastered his own dialogue but had written his own part. Yet he seemed to search for a phrase before answering Kausalya’s eager questions. ‘They are both well. Your son Rama achieved a great victory over Tataka. And both of them showed great courage and prowess in the battle against the dread demoness’s army of vile offspring. They shall return as champions to Ayodhya in time for the coronation. That auspicious day is also the day of Rama’s naming, his sixteenth navami. And proudly will he stand before his creator and be declared a man not just in age but in achievements.’
Kausalya’s lips parted with amazement as she repeated the guru’s last words. ‘A man. My Rama will return a man.’
‘And he will be crowned king. This is his destiny and he well deserves it. These things I have seen through the flow of Brahman that pervades the entire universe, by the grace of the devas who have granted me this ability as a boon for my long bhor tapasya.’
Kausalya bowed her head again, preparing to touch her forehead once more to the guru’s feet. But Vashishta stopped her this time; catching her shoulders and raising her upright, he brought her to her feet, rising with her. The seer towered over the First Queen, although, like most Arya Kshatriya women, she was as tall as any average man.
‘Do not thank me, good Kausalya. It is I who should thank you instead. For bearing such a great son, and for raising him so well.’
The guru’s voice softened, his penetrating gaze growing gentler. ‘For too long you have endured the negligence of Dasaratha and the malicious will of Kaikeyi silently. Pay heed to what I say now, Kausalya. For this is the most important advice I shall ever give you in this lifetime.’
Kausalya’s eyes widened.
The guru’s word was akin to law. Perhaps because of this, he gave advice so rarely that the court scribes kept detailed records of each of his dispensations in a special bank of scrolls named Vashishta-Puran. It was said that a newly crowned king could find enough wisdom in that book to see him through fifty reigns. After all, it had been just about that long that Guru Vashishta had been acting as spiritual guide and mentor to the Suryavansha dynasty. Kausalya showed her respect for the guru’s gift of wisdom by wiping her tears quickly and listening raptly.
‘There shall be challenges ahead in the days to come, good Kausalya. Great challenges that shall test your mettle to the limit. I know you will weather these challenges and emerge triumphant. But in the hope that I may lighten your heavy burden somewhat, I offer you this word of gentle direction. Remember that your son Rama Chandra is as much a child of dharma as he is a child of your body. I have been guru to the royal family of the kingdom of Kosala, and its throne here at Ayodhya, for nigh on eight hundred years. Not once in all that time have I seen a prince or princess with as much promise as your son. Truly he is blessed by the devas with great qualities.’
Kausalya’s fair complexion, as white as a lily’s petals, coloured with a blush of pleasure and pride. She touched her mangalsutra instinctively, the black-bead necklace that every legitimate wife wore to indicate her married status to society at large, silently mouthing an invocation to Durga, the avatar of the Mother Goddess Sri to whom she prayed daily for the wellbeing of her family.
The guru nodded approvingly and continued. ‘Yet great prowess is tempered with great responsibility. The head that wears a crown must bear its weight as well. Remember this when trying times approach, Kausalya, and you and your son will weather the storm that gathers above Ayodhya.’