Why does he not include Dasaratha? Why does he only mention Rama and me? The thought flashed through her mind as fleetingly as lightning glimpsed in a distant monsoon cloud.
Aloud she said, ‘Great One, I do not fathom your meaning. Are you warning me of some danger that will befall us? When will this crisis descend?’
Again, that uncharacteristic trepidation passed over Guru Vashishta’s ancient features. It lasted a fraction of a second but this time Kausalya was watching him closely and she caught the expression.
‘In a kingdom as vast and powerful as this great land, danger is a part of life. Whatever the crisis, rest assured that you and your son will face it and triumph in the end, good Kausalya. Now, I must go to visit the maharaja. I wish to see his face with my own eyes.’
Kausalya hesitated. She wanted to ask the sage many more questions. But she was aware how precious and rare this whole encounter had been. She was too good a person to impose any further on the great guru’s patience.
It was Vashishta himself who sensed her hesitation and paused. ‘I see a question lingering in your eyes, good Kausalya. Go ahead then, ask. You have earned that much at least with your diligence and patience.’
She bowed her head gratefully. ‘Guru-dev, some days past, on the night of Rama’s departure, you called the royal family together in the Seal Room to discuss an urgent matter. All of us were in attendance, apart from Second Queen Kaikeyi, whom you requested be kept apart for reasons best known to you alone.’
His voice was gentle and patient. ‘Indeed, Kausalya. You were present at the meeting. You recall that discussion as well as I do.’
‘Yes, Guru-dev. But after the meeting you retired to this yoga chamber with instructions you were not to be disturbed. And only today, eight days after that last encounter, do I have the opportunity to be graced with your venerated presence once again.’
She gestured mildly, trying to explain herself more eloquently. ‘What I mean to say, great guru, is that a statement you made at that secret meeting has been troubling me all these past days. Could I ask you what you meant by that statement?’
Vashishta nodded. ‘You may, good queen.’
Kausalya breathed out slowly. ‘Then pray tell me, Gurudev, when you said that the threat to our kingdom would come from Maharaja Dasaratha himself, what did you mean? All of us have debated and sought to understand your meaning, but we are as perplexed today as we were that night. How could Dasaratha, the protector and saviour of the mortal realm and the Arya civilisation, he who risked his own life and immortal aatma by battling the asuras in the Last War, how could he cause any danger to his own beloved kingdom? Or to his own family? Pray tell me, for I cannot believe that my husband can do or say anything that will cause harm to the kingdom of Kosala. You are infinitely wise and omniscient, maha-dev. What was the real meaning of that statement you made?’
Vashishta was silent for a moment. This time, the silence was deliberate and it weighed heavily in the air, giving the guru’s next words greater significance.
‘Karma, my good queen. The only thing that can outweigh the scales of character and bring the noblest of mortals to his knees. If dharma is one side of the scale of a man’s character, then karma is the other side of that same scale. Maharaja Dasaratha need not commit any new deed or speak any new word that will cause harm to his kingdom and family. It is his past misdeeds and misspoken words that threaten us all. In due course, you shall see the truth of my prophecy revealed clearly. I can say no more at this time, for it would endanger the balance of the scales. The wheel of time, the great samay chakra that governs all our lives, gods and mortals and asuras alike, shall reveal all in due course. There is the answer to your question. Now, I take your leave to go visit the king in his sickchamber and hasten his recovery.’
But before the guru could take another step, a serving girl rushed in, agitation writ large on her face. ‘Guru-dev, Maharani, pardon the intrusion. The Maharaja and Third Queen Sumitra …’
‘Yes,’ Kausalya asked curiously. ‘What about them?’
The serving girl wrung her hands in distress, tears spilling down her cheeks. ‘Something … something terrible has happened. Please, come quickly.’
TEN
The sun was barely over the treetops when they set out for Mithila.
Shortly before leaving, the Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama assembled in the open field before the main hermitage. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra led the congregation in a final chanting of mantras, asking the devas to watch over the hermitage, its surrounding forest and flower groves, and the animals that roved freely. Rama saw several species of animals watching from the edge of the woods. The animals of Siddh-ashrama lived without fear of humans; they had never known violence or aggression from their two-legged friends.
The seer-mage ended the prayer with a mantra praying for their safe journey and speedy return. The entire congregation prostrated themselves before him, then stood and came forward singly to accept the simple prasadam of desiccated coconut from his blessed hands, bowing their heads for the guru’s ashirwaad.
The adoration on the faces of the ashramites was striking; some of them had come to the ashram as infants, brought by their parents to be raised in the holy ancient ways, and had only heard of the great founder of the hermitage. Even the oldest sadhus and rishis had not seen Vishwamitra in the flesh before. After all, Rama recalled, the brahmarishi had been cloistered in a grotto deep in the jungle for over two hundred and forty years, performing the intense transcendental meditation that Brahmins called bhor tapasya. He had only interrupted his long penance in response to the petitions of the rishis of the ashram, who were troubled by the rakshasas who had begun disturbing their holy rituals. And few Brahmins, even those as devout as the residents of Siddh-ashrama, lived anywhere close to Vishwamitra’s five thousand years.
Rama himself felt little reaction to any of this. He felt little of anything. After the debate over which choice to make, he had reached a point beyond emotion, a point where he felt he was walking on a road so unfamiliar that he hardly knew whether it led upward or downward, over a bottomless pit or into a vale of flowers. He knew only that he had chosen, and that he must now see that choice through to its end, whatever that end might be. There was a phrase his mother had always used when speaking of life-choices: as you choose, thus must you act. He had chosen. It was no longer his job to judge whether that choice was the right one or the wrong one. His only to act, and fulfil the promise made by his choosing.
After the distribution of prasadam, which Rama and Lakshman as well as the Vajra Kshatriyas accepted from the seer-mage, Vishwamitra then led the congregation in a mantra offering thanks to the rajkumars Rama and Lakshman for cleansing the Bhayanak-van, breeding ground for the yaksi Tataka and her demonaic offspring, and protecting their sacred yagna from Tataka’s vengeful sons Mareech and Subahu.
‘It is thanks to the courage and battle prowess of these two noble Kshatriyas that our great yagna was successful,’ the brahmarishi concluded. ‘They have upheld the code of the Kshatriya and fulfilled the oath they swore unto me before their father. They are true keepers of the sacred flame of dharma. We shall chant their names aloud at sunrise and sunset when we perform our ritual offerings.’
Rama sensed Lakshman’s numbness. His brother had accepted his decision without argument or debate, folding his hands respectfully, as befitted a younger sibling–even though he might be only days younger–and pledging acquiescence. Unlike Bejoo, who had ranted and raved on for several minutes, refusing to accept Rama’s words.
Rama turned his head a fraction, and glimpsed Captain Bejoo, watching from the cart path where he stood at the head of his Vajra.
The look of open fury on the Vajra captain’s face said all that needed to be said. He would not, indeed could not, hide his feelings. But he was sworn to protect the rajkumars wherever they might go, and to return with them alive, or not return at all. He would do his duty no matter how it rankled. In his own way, he was fulfilling his own dharma as well.
The ritual over, the congregation dispersed and moved with an orderliness born of centuries of monastic discipline towards the row of bullock-carts waiting on the dirt track. Rama watched as the Vajra commander mounted his horse and issued a crisp order to his charioteers. The Vajra chariots rode around the line of bullock-carts and Brahmins, disappearing up ahead in a cloud of dust. Having heard Bejoo giving his unit their orders the previous evening, Rama knew that the chariot would scout about a mile ahead, making sure the path was clear of obstacles.
The Vajra elephants were the next to receive their marching orders. They trundled forward, trumpeting happily at being on the move again, their armoured saddles polished to a glitter. They would walk at the head of the Brahmin procession, a quarter-to a half-mile before the humans, a formidable defence against any unexpected trouble. If he couldn’t fulfil the latter part of his orders by delivering the rajkumars home swiftly, Bejoo was making sure he fulfilled the first part—to protect them vigilantly.
As the elephants trundled by, the ground trembling beneath their tonnage, the lead bull—named Himavat after the tallest peak in the northern range, the father-mountain of the great Himalayas—trumpeted a friendly greeting to Lakshman, whose gift for befriending voiceless beasts had only been enhanced in the benign environs of Siddh-ashrama. Despite the momentous events that had marked this day already, Rama was compelled to smile at how eagerly the towering bigfoot rolled his trunk upwards into a salute to both of them. The royal elephants of Ayodhya could hardly have mustered a better salute to their maharaja during the annual parade.
He nudged Lakshman, admonishing his brother for not responding to the elephant’s innocent greeting. Lakshman glanced up at Rama. Rama met his brother’s eyes and held them firmly with his own strong gaze.
‘As you choose, thus must you act, Lakshman,’ he said quietly, knowing that his brother understood the full implications and meaning of the phrase. ‘Once decided, there is no place for regret or remorse.’
Lakshman stared at him a moment, as if battling with some great turmoil within himself. Then he nodded briefly, once, turned and waved to the elephant. Himavat trumpeted again, louder than ever, to show his delight. A pair of maharishis standing nearest to the bigfoot covered their ears, blasted into temporary deafness by the volume of the pachyderm’s joy.
Himavat’s fellow bigfoot echoed their response. The entire clearing filled with the powerful sounds of their effusion. In the distant depths of the Vatsa woods, their wilder brothers blew their own trumpeting responses.
While the elephants moved up to the front, the horse section of the Vajra unit turned around in the opposite direction, riding to the very end of the entourage, where they took up a defensive rearguard position. Now, the procession was ready to set off. Rama noted that it was already two hours since sunrise. They were running a little later than the brahmarishi had desired.
A breathless young acolyte, his oiled pigtail bouncing atop his shaven pate, came running up to inform the rajkumars that the seer-mage was awaiting their presence at the head of the procession. Rama and Lakshman acknowledged the acolyte’s message. The young Brahmin-in-training executed a deep bow and a namaskar while retreating backwards to avoid showing them his back. When he was the requisite three yards distant, he turned and sprinted back to join his fellow novices, who were waiting eagerly to ask him about his close personal encounter with the heroes of Bhayanak-van.
Rama and Lakshman began walking across the grassy field to the front of the long, winding line of carts and Brahmins. They passed rows of carts filled with white-haired, white-bearded rishis reciting their mantras while counting off the red beads on their prayer necklaces. Younger Brahmins waited on foot, herding the cattle that would provide the only nourishment the Brahmins would partake of during their journey: cow’s milk. The rajkumars passed the line of young acolytes, smiling and waving at their excited admirers. The boy who had brought the message waved familiarly at them, showing off for his associates.
‘He reminds me of Dumma,’ Rama said to Lakshman when they were out of hearing range. Though he avoided staring directly, nevertheless he was watching Lakshman closely. His younger brother had ever been more prone to emotional sensitivity, and Rama was concerned that he might not be able to bear the strain of the crushing burden they had been given.
He was relieved when Lakshman managed a reluctant grin. ‘Dumma and his flying fruits!’
Rama smiled as well, remembering the young brahmacharya running after them on the riverbank, tossing fruits to them as they glided downriver on a raft.
‘And his falling dhoti!’
Lakshman laughed involuntarily. ‘You think we’ll see him at Mithila?’
‘We might. Brahmarishi Vishwamitra said that this annual congregation is a big thing. Every Brahmin in both kingdoms should be there. You know how much Chacha Janak loves a good philosophical debate.’
He was referring to the neighbouring kingdoms of Kosala and Videha, of which Ayodhya and Mithila were the capital cities. The Chandravansha dynasty that ruled Videha from the moonwood throne at Mithila was related to the Suryavansha dynasty to which Rama and Lakshman were heirs. Maharaja Janak, king of Videha, was a distant cousin, affectionately referred to as ‘chacha’ by Rama and his brothers, although he wasn’t actually their uncle by blood, only distantly related by marriage through their father.