The brahmarishi began speaking, and Rama’s attention turned to the sage.
Vishwamitra spoke quietly, yet his voice seemed to carry across the riverbed to even the farthest listener, who was Bejoo. The Vajra captain put down his sword and sharpening stone and listened to the seer.
‘I know all of you are eager to partake of some nourishment. This has been a long day and the past days have been difficult ones too. In a few moments, we shall eat together. I know that some of us,’ here the seer’s eyes passed over the two princes of Ayodhya and the black-clad mercenaries and then flicked to where Bejoo sat, ‘have weighty concerns on their mind. All doubts will be pacified, all questions answered. This shall be done after we nourish ourselves. But first an important sandesh to all of you. From this point onwards, our company will divide into two groups.’
A ripple of surprise met this announcement.
Vishwamitra went on, ‘My good Brahmins of Siddh-ashrama, you will travel to Mithila directly via the rajmarg. Maharishi Tulsidas will lead you well.’
He indicated the elderly rishi who had stood up when his name was spoken and now greeted the congregation with a namaskar. He resumed his seat as the guru continued.
‘The rajkumars and I will take the Visala road to Mithila. I invite our new Kshatriya friends to accompany us as well.’
Rama glanced at Janaki Kumar. The lad looked startled by the seer’s announcement, as if unsure of how to respond.
Fortunately for the young warrior, Captain Bejoo spoke at that moment. ‘Swami, may I enquire as to why the company must split up?’
Vishwamitra replied, ‘Owing to certain developments too complex to explain here and now, the rajkumars and I must visit Visala before travelling on to Mithila. I do not wish to delay the rest of the company. The good ashramites of Siddhashrama have waited eagerly all year to attend this philosophical festival. Taking this detour would cause them to miss the first day and also the inaugural yagna. Hence the rajkumars and I shall travel separately from this point onwards.’
The sage added as an afterthought: ‘However, you and your Vajra Kshatriyas may freely choose which group you wish to travel with. After all, you are not under my spiritual guidance and may do as you please.’
Without waiting for an answer, the sage went on, ‘We shall all meet in Mithila then. I urge all you good Brahmins to make directly for the congregation halls specially provided in the fields adjacent to the royal complex. There you will be well cared for and all your needs met. Those of you who have attended this annual conference will know full well that Maharaja Janak’s love for men of faith and philosophical debate is matched only by his generous and warm hospitality. I am sure we shall all come away from this trip a little wiser and more insightful about matters that are central to our way of life and thought.’
Vishwamitra raised his head. The sky was a deep dusky blue, and few birds were flying now. The sounds of night insects were growing steadily louder as twilight fell as rapidly as a black scarf descending.
‘It is past sunset now. Let us all perform our agnihotra and then take some nourishment prepared by our Brahmins. The Kshatriyas shall be fed at the two cookfires further upriver. This segregation is unavoidable as they consume flesh and our Brahmins do not. After breaking my fast with my good ashramites, I will join the Kshatriyas for a while in order to discuss tomorrow’s journey. I urge all of you to take an early night’s rest and be refreshed before the long journey tomorrow. Swaha.’
‘Swaha!’ responded the congregation in one resounding chorus. Everybody began moving eagerly towards the cookfires. There was only one thing Brahmins loved more than prayer and penance, and that was good food.
***
It took Guru Vashishta the better part of the day to complete the ritual spiritual cleansing and make sure that Dasaratha was totally free of all evil influences. Both the healer and the afflicted remained through those many hours locked in a bond of Brahman. The evening shadows were lengthening across the assembly hall floor when Vashishta ceased chanting the smriti mantras—the most secret Vedic knowledge of all—and was finally satisfied that this new crisis was also past.
Still holding the maharaja on the tip of his finger, the guru lowered Dasaratha gently to the floor. This part of the hall was furnished with large, comfortably stuffed mattresses that Aryas liked to stretch out on while conducting business or pleasure.
He placed the unconscious king on one such seat. Dasaratha returned to gravity, his bulk indenting the overstuffed mattress. The guru watched him closely for several moments, then finally felt satisfied that the maharaja was breathing normally and out of danger.
He rose to his feet and strode towards the doors of the hall with an energy that belied his considerable age. A single phrase from his lips parted the towering doors. The palace guards moved aside to let the seer pass.
He gestured to their leader.
‘The maharaja is exhausted and needs rest. Have him taken to his sick-chamber.’
The guards rushed to do his bidding.
Vashishta turned to face the sizeable group that awaited him anxiously. First Queen Kausalya was there, but the other two titled queens were conspicuous by their absence. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, Captain Drishti Kumar and his father Senapati Dheeraj Kumar were present as well, along with Mantri Jabali, Mantri Ashok and the other members of the ministerial cabinet, and several other nobles and officials of the court. The anxiety on all their faces was as plain as a spoken question.
‘Council of Ayodhya, pray, enter within the assembly hall. We have important matters to discuss.’
They followed him in without question. Their wan, anxious faces and small number were a stark contrast to the busy, bustling, clamour that normally filled the vast chamber. Vashishta stood at the foot of the royal dais and turned to face the council of ministers and the First Queen of Kosala.
A volley of questions erupted, everybody speaking at once, eager to know the meaning behind the sage’s cryptic comments. Only the maharani awaited her chance to speak.
Vashishta raised a hand, showing them his palm.
‘Silence. The maharaja is well. He is tired now and will sleep long and deeply. But when he awakens he will be refreshed and well.’
A hoarse cheer rose from the assembly. Two or three assistants ran down towards the exit to convey the news to the criers, who would pass it on to the citizenry. The others remained, still looking anxiously at the guru. He resisted the urge to sigh. The exorcism had taken a great deal out of him. But their questions would have to be answered.
First Queen Kausalya spoke first, asking anxiously, ‘Gurudev? Was there an attack on the maharaja?’
Vashishta sighed. ‘It vexes me to say aye, maharani. This morning the attempt on his life was physical and brought him to the very brink of mortality. But the later attack was spiritual.’
‘Spiritual, maha-dev?’
Vashishta nodded. ‘Yes, maharani. The courier who arrived this morning was no normal Kshatriya. He was one of Ravana’s own minions.’
Consternation and dismay met this announcement. Pradhan Mantri Sumantra’s face creased into a mask of anger.
The guru held up his hand. ‘But do not fear. The danger is past. Twice today the Lord of Lanka has attempted to take our liege’s life. Twice he has been foiled. The devas watch over Maharaja Dasaratha. The man named Bheriya was in truth a twice-lifer. He was ambushed and killed last night on the road to Ayodhya. The king of the asuras infused the empty vessel of his body with the aatma of another long-dead man. This wretched being was sent here by the Lord of Lanka to deliver a false message.’
The faces of the ministers and the maharani were chalk-white with shock.
The sage turned to the First Queen and said gently, ‘Maharani, the king has need of your healing touch. I request you, attend him in his sick-chamber and let me know the minute he awakens.’
Kausalya nodded and withdrew without any argument. The First Queen had sat on the sunwood throne long enough to know that even a maharani could not deal with every problem at once. This was a matter for the guru and the royal council. She also understood from the subtle change of tone in the guru’s voice that he wished her to stay close to the maharaja. An enemy who could make two attempts on the king of Ayodhya’s life was capable of making another. She exited the hall with the same quiet grace and dignity with which she always conducted herself.
After she was gone, the guru had the doors closed again. For the third time that day, they were barred shut.
SIX
Bejoo wished the Brahmin caste had never been created.
The Vajra captain sat on his bundled saddle and horse armour, scowling darkly enough to keep everyone else at bay. He wanted to be left alone. Around him, his Kshatriyas had already finished their meal and were sipping some fermented grape juice in place of their nightly soma. He would have paid a hundred rupees for some soma or even some cheap local wine, but there was none to be had for love or money in this godly part of the country.
A plantain leaf with chunks of roasted meat, charcoaled vegetables on a stick and segments of fruit lay in the captain’s hands. As he ate, he watched the Brahmin camp downriver. The Siddh-ashramites had already finished their supper and were now singing, clanging their bell-clappers together in noisy rhythm to the beat of their devotional chanting. He wondered how they got their energy, carrying on that way after covering a dozen yojanas on foot and supping on vegetarian fare. What was it they said? ‘Prayer is meat and soma to the true devotee?’ Maybe there was something to it after all.
As for himself, his bones ached as if he had walked those hundred-plus miles beside them instead of having ridden them out on his mount. He suspected that it was the stress of riding without any definite purpose that had worn him down more than the distance covered. O Shani-deva, he thought wearily, I’m getting too old for this traipsing around with Brahmins, going nowhere and doing nothing useful. If not for the little stir-up on the hill, he would barely have been able to put food in his mouth; a true Kshatriya earned his meat. Even there, it was the rajkumars who had done most of the fighting.
A few yards to his left, the two rajkumars and their new Kshatriya friends sat eating and talking to one another. Bejoo noticed Rajkumar Rama laughing whole-heartedly at something Janaki Kumar had just said. Clearly, the prince enjoyed the slender mercenary’s company—they had spent their meal-hour talking and laughing more than eating. The wind was blowing across the river and Bejoo had heard several of the lad’s words as well. The Kshatriya clearly had a nimble mind and a witty tongue. Rajkumar Lakshman didn’t seem as taken by the Kshatriya - the junior prince had found himself on the receiving end of that sharp tongue more than once, to Bejoo’s delight. It wouldn’t hurt Lakshman to realise that there were wits sharper than his own.
Around the Kshatriya campsite, Bejoo could hear the sounds of his men laying down pallets for the night. Despite the fact that it was early spring, the weather had turned surprisingly warm. After sunset a little bite had come into the wind, but it was barely a nip compared to the freezing chill of the northern nations. Bejoo and his Vajra had camped out without tents in temperatures close to freezing in the mountains of Gandahar. This was like a summer bask in comparison.
He was still having some difficulty dealing with this whole trip to Mithila. And now the sage wanted to take them sightseeing! At least, that was what it sounded like to Bejoo’s ears. Why would they want to leave the main company and take a detour to Visala? To see the Ganga, that was why. The holy river of the Arya nations, its waters regarded as sacred and magical, the Ganga flowed past Visala, right through the Gautama groves. Bejoo was prepared to bet his horse that the sage wanted to bathe in the holy water and offer prayers. The Ganga was the holiest of rivers and the place where it flowed through the Gautama groves was of special significance to seers. No doubt the sage would want to take his ceremonial dip in the waters there before proceeding to Mithila. Maybe even spend another day or two showing the rajkumars the botanical wonders of the Videha plains. Why, at this rate, they would be lucky to return to Ayodhya in time for Deepavali!
At times like this it seemed to Bejoo that these stubborn, aloof and superior-aired pundits had been put on earth only to vex and frustrate Kshatriyas. And the brahmarishi in particular was probably a fully ordained maestro of the art of Kshatriya vexation!
The subject of his ire appeared just then, a tall, strong figure making his way upriver over the pebbled bank, his staff crunching as loud as a bigfoot hoof each time it struck the ground. Bejoo didn’t fail to notice the faint blue sparks that rose from each contact of the staff. That was the other thing that made him uneasy about Brahmins: they leaked Brahman power like a firefly leaked light. It made his hackles rise. Bejoo trusted things that could be seen, touched, tasted, felt, smelled—and hacked, stabbed and lopped off, not to put too fine a point on it.
The very sight of the Brahman sparks made his stomach queasy. How did one fight powers like that? He put his leaf of food aside, unfinished, and stood up. Protocol, always protocol. Until the Brahmins decided to listen to the voice of the devas instead of Arya rules, at which point protocol, with everything else mortal, went out of the window and down into the stinky moat. Bejoo slapped his hands on his flanks, carelessly wiping them clean, and went to receive the brahmarishi.