PRINCE IN EXILE (17 page)

Jatayu flew higher on the warm, smelly draught, craning its neck to gain a better perspective by which to make sense of what it was seeing. It almost cried out in terror as its mind finally assimilated and accepted what its eyes were perceiving. 

Illuminated by the light of the mashaals, the largest rakshasa Jatayu had ever seen - or imagined in its wildest nightmares lay sleeping on the floor of the chamber. The warm, malodorous eddy on which Jatayu was riding was the exhalations of the rakshasa’s breath as it snored raggedly. 

Jatayu squawked like a pigeon in a cat’s lair and changed direction quickly, seeking a way out. Suddenly it knew why the forbidden chamber was forbidden. It was the private chamber of Kumbhakarna, brother of Ravana. 

ELEVEN 

Dasaratha sighed. The weariness of the maharaja was visible to all as they awaited his decision on the conundrum. Sita’s heart went out to him. She knew what he had been through these past few days and could see that the canker ravaging his body had only gained a greater hold. This was not the Dasaratha she remembered from her girlhood visits. The illness had reduced him to a pale shadow of his former self, turning the lion-strong warrior-king into a wounded old cat. 

As she watched her father-in-law struggle to pronounce judgement on the matter at hand, she was reminded powerfully of her own father. She had watched him age and change as well. But there was a difference. While Maharaja Janak had grown leaner, more austere and more calm with the passing of time, Dasaratha seemed to have grown wearier and more burdened. The sunwood crown was a heavy weight to bear on that ageing brow. 

It vindicated her father’s lifelong belief that the body was indeed a temple, and ought to be treated as such. Her father had been stout and mild-mannered in his youth, or at least that part of his younger life that she had witnessed, but unlike many of his contemporaries, Janak had grown leaner and stronger both physically and spiritually with the passing of time. She had often admired his self-discipline and ability to adhere to his rigorous routine. 

Dasaratha, though, had clearly suffered adversely from the excesses of living, and had allowed his virile manliness to waste away. 

She wondered briefly—just a fraction of a lightning-second— if Rama would become like this some day in the distant future. An ageing, weary king, too ravaged even to rise to his own feet, crushed beneath the burden of kingship. 

For some reason, she didn’t think so. Rama was Dasaratha’s son, true, but he was also Kausalya’s son. And looking at the three of them now, Sita saw at once that it was Kausalya’s steel-strong fortitude that Rama had inherited, rather than Dasaratha’s leonine forcefulness. And as for the other fleshly indulgences, well, in that respect Rama compared favourably with Sita’s father rather than his own. 

Enough,
she told herself sternly.
You’re being too harsh
. All right, so Dasaratha had been careless about his health, and perhaps he should have paid more attention to spiritual contemplation than fleshly indulgence, but who was she to judge him? He was once the greatest warrior-king in the seven nations. Her father had only one victory to his credit, that too a disputed battle against a petty despot. And that paltry lack of battlefield prowess didn’t trouble Janaka in the least; he had always been a pursuer of spiritual gains rather than military ones. 

On the other hand, Dasaratha, this weary, ageing king seated before her, had kept the asura hordes from the borders of the Arya world and raised the Kosala nation into the greatest power on earth today. Whereas when death came stalking up to Mithila’s door, her father could barely summon up enough military resources to man the gates of his home city. It had taken a prince from another kingdom, this same Dasaratha’s son, to save the King of Vaideha’s kingdom and people. 

As for past errors of youth and indulgence … which man did not have his weaknesses? For that matter, which deva? Arya scripture was rife with the many instances of devas and devis faltering, succumbing to vices and temptations, committing grave errors and mortal sins. This man, why, he was just a man. A king. A great king and a great provider and protector. What more could one ask for? Perfection? Sainthood?
In that case, go create your own dream-world, Sita Janaki; this one belongs to those whose feet still gather dust and mud when they walk the marg, no matter how lofty their thoughts and ideals
. 

Even her father was wise enough to know and accept that, through all his spiritual austerity and religious dedication. He had said as much to Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, and to Rama, her Rama, when giving his daughter away in the kanyadaan, the gift-of-the-daughter ceremony at their wedding. ‘Today I do not give away a daughter, I gain a son, a son I could not be more proud of had the devas themselves given him over as a dakshina for my long piety.’ 

It had been a shining moment in her life, that realisation that her father, despite all his peaceful spiritualism, still accepted the need for warriors and heroes in this troubled mortal realm. 

She watched Dasaratha now in this new perspective, his bowed head weighted down by the burden of his difficult decision, and saw the man within the king, the soul beneath the crown. It was a heroic soul, battling manfully with larger-thanlife challenges, and bravely triumphing. No wonder that he had produced such a son. For Rama was his son too, just as much as he was Kausalya’s. 

Pradhan-mantri Sumantra was at his maharaja’s side, looking anxious. Unlike his counterparts in other Arya states, politically ambitious players that they all were, Sumantra seemed content to focus his energies on administration and organisation, working discreetly by Dasaratha’s side like a charioteer by his lord, steering the rath adeptly through treacherous ways and leaving his master free to concentrate on more important intellectual decisions. Sita guessed they must have been very effective partners in the governance of the Kosala nation, judging from the city she had just passed through. 

She was still recovering from her passage through mighty Ayodhya, the sheer spectacle of colour and noise that had assailed them. Such a display would have been considered wastefully extravagant, even decadent, back home in spiritually enlightened Mithila, but she understood and appreciated the need for the Ayodhyans to express their gratitude and admiration for their liege-heir. And Mithilan though she might be, she was not too enlightened to recognise that Rama’s victories had been no ordinary trophies won at a feast-day melee. This was history in the making. Ayodhya was everything the legends claimed, a lion among Arya nations. 

And yet, here was the dark blight on Ayodhya’s sun-bright face. Sita already knew about the history of Dasaratha and his three wives, his succumbing to Kaikeyi’s amorous charms to the woeful neglect of his lawful first wife Kausalya, and even the delicately girlish Sumitra. Rama had been reticent about the actual day-to-day relationship between the queens, but Sita was woman enough to understand that however polite and well-mannered things might be on the surface, the three ranis, and the first two in particular, could hardly be gaily contented in one another’s company. 

Dasaratha coughed feebly. Sumantra bent forward quickly, and the maharaja took the napkin the pradhan-mantri handed him, using it to wipe his mouth. Sita was startled to see a distinct tinge of red on the cream-coloured cloth. Dasaratha moved his hand in a gesture of thanks to Sumantra, who offered him a goblet. Dasaratha sipped gingerly, with the painful slowness of someone whose every physical action has become a living torture, and then seemed ready to speak. 

‘This dilemma is beyond the powers of any ordinary mortal to solve,’ he said hoarsely. ‘And it is hardly meet for me to make such choices amongst my own queens. I urge you all to contain yourselves and wait until we have completed the ritual welcoming of our daughters-in-law into their new house. Thereafter we shall … ‘interrupting himself to release another volley of heartrending coughs,’ … we shall retire to the sabha hall and debate the matter in private session.’ 

Sita resisted the urge to frown. She sensed from the turning of heads and sharing of glances that everyone else in attendance was as puzzled by the maharaja’s response as she was. Dasaratha’s words were extraordinarily obtuse and vague in the circumstances. Rani Sumitra’s accusation had been blatantly unambiguous: she had accused Rani Kaikeyi of being an asura in disguise! Few allegations could have been more urgent. Rani Kausalya had seconded Sumitra’s accusation, adding to its gravity. Yet here was the king asking them all to wait and talk about this later. 

Then Dasaratha punctuated his words with a look at Kausalya. The expression in the maharaja’s shining, beady eyes, the ghastly pallor on his sweat-washed face, the involuntary rhythmic shaking of his jowls, these told Sita what the maharaja’s words could not express. 

She saw the truth beneath his diplomatic words. Dasaratha was even sicker than he looked. The maharaja was at the end of his resources, and was asking Kausalya, as the senior queen, to give him a little respite, buy him a little time. An outright call of help could hardly have made his condition plainer. The look in the king’s eyes was as close to a plea as one could expect to see. Sita felt ashamed at all the criticisms of Dasaratha that had passed through her mind only moments ago. In the end, he was just an ailing man on the verge of his end. 

Kausalya’s face softened immediately. The First Queen’s quick eyes caught the plea in her husband’s response and look, and she responded at once. ‘Of course, my lord. If that is your will, we shall discuss it later.’ She looked around, aware of the several hundred pairs of eyes upon them both, analysing and judging shrewdly. A nation was watching its king in his last days, measuring how these words and decisions might affect them individually and universally. Kausalya raised her voice. ‘Truly, you speak wisely, Ayodhya-naresh. As ever your adherence to dharma is beyond reproach. Verily do you insist that tradition and ritual must come before all personal considerations. Our private family matter would best be discussed behind closed doors later tonight.’ 

Sita distinctly heard a sigh of frustration rise from the aristocratic ranks. A private sabha would mean that none of them would be able to see how the drama unfolded. 

Kausalya touched Sumitra’s arm gently. ‘My sister-queen, I urge you to withdraw your accusation for the nonce. We shall debate this issue within the chambers of the sabha hall after the completion of this rite.’ 

Another look passed between the two queens, this one of empathy and understanding. Sumitra glanced at Dasaratha, her own face reflecting her concern for her husband’s well-being, and she nodded. ‘Of course, my sister. A few more moments will hardly matter.’ She hesitated, then glanced over Kausalya’s shoulder at the other queen. Her expression hardened again. ‘I ask only that Rani Kaikeyi be placed under … ‘ she seemed to weigh her words cautiously, ‘under close watch until such time as this matter is resolved. If it pleases you and our lord?’ 

Kausalya hesitated a moment, as if debating how to agree to Sumitra’s request without launching them all upon yet another stage of accusations and counter-accusations. Then, before the First Queen could say another word, Kaikeyi herself spoke. Silent this past spell of time as her identity was being questioned and then disputed, the Second Queen now leaped back in the saddle. She took a step forward, raising an arm heavy with glittering gold. 

‘Justice.’ 

Heads turned to look at Kaikeyi. 

The Second Queen’s voice was fraught with a haughty air of righteousness that even Sita, who did not know Kaikeyi well, thought was obnoxious. 

‘My honour has been sullied in public. I protest against this barbaric offence and demand redress at once. Clear my name before we proceed further.’ 

Kaikeyi looked at the four princes with their new brides, all watching anxiously as the drama unfolded. ‘I apologise for first interrupting and now delaying your rite of welcoming, my sons, my new daughters. But I was not the aggressor here. I have been wrongfully accused in a shocking and reprehensible manner.’ 

She gestured at the watching aristocrats, nobles, ministers of the court and other onlookers. Sita sensed their glee at the continuance of the drama, an interest that Kaikeyi was milking for all it was worth. ‘The accusation was made publicly. To take the matter under private advisement would be to deny me my opportunity for vindication. I demand therefore that the matter be settled here and now, this very minute. An injustice was done unto me and it must be undone before we can proceed.’ 

Sumitra’s delicate features sharpened into a birdlike ferocity. ‘You see? She does not even have a heart in that breast, or she would understand why it is we are willing to postpone the matter. I tell you, Kausalya, this witch–’ 

Kausalya pressed down on the younger queen’s shoulder, cutting off Sumitra’s outburst. The senior queen spoke with a tight-lipped formality that sharply rebutted Kaikeyi’s overblown tone of self-righteousness. ‘Rani Kaikeyi, you heard the maharaja’s decision. Once spoken, his word is law. Is it now your desire to invoke the charge of treasonous disobedience by ignoring his judgement? For that is what you appear to be doing by refusing to accept his decision.’ 

Bravo
. Sita wished she could applaud. Kausalya’s response was as masterful as anything she could have wanted.
That’ll put the shrew in her place. 

Kaikeyi’s smile showed that she was undaunted. ‘Come, come, Kausalya. How could I possibly deny the authority of our lord? Of course I abide by his decision in every respect. What I am saying now is no contradiction to Dasaratha’s pronouncement, it is simply an expansion. The maharaja himself said that we should finish the rites first before continuing this discussion in private. And part of these rites includes my welcoming my own son and his new bride into our household. A right that you seek to deny me.’