PRINCE IN EXILE (3 page)

I could not have said it better. 

Yuganta, Iravati Karve’s landmark Sahitya Akademi Award-winning study of the Mahabharata, packs more valuable insights into its slender 220-page pocket-sized edition (Disha) than any ten encyclopaedias. In arguably the finest essay of the book, ‘Draupadi’, she includes this footnote: 

‘The discussion up to this point is based on the critical edition of the Mahabharata. What follows is my naroti [naroti = a dry coconut shell, i.e. a worthless thing. The word ‘naroti’ was first used in this sense by the poet Eknath].’ 

In the free musings of Karve’s mind, we learn more about Vyasa’s formidable epic than from most encyclopaedic theses. For only from free thought can come truly progressive ideas. 

In that spirit, I urge readers to consider my dried coconut shell reworking of the Ramayana in the same spirit. 

If anything in the following pages pleases you, thank those great forebears in whose giant footsteps I placed my own small feet. 

If any parts displease you, then please blame them on my inadequate talents, not on the tale. 

ASHOK K. BANKER 

Mumbai

April 2005

PRARAMBH

ONE 

Rama. 

The word rose into the air like a cry through a mouthful of shattered bone; part lamentation, part howl. It was accompanied by a plume of smoke emerging from a crack in the blighted earth, a wispy thread of cottony white unravelled from the vast grey ash-blanket that smothered the landscape. It spiralled skywards in languorous corkscrew circles that defied the tearing wind, rising high above the ashen earth, far above the pitted boulders, the scorched trees, the stripped cliffsides; and still it rose up through the birdless and desolate sky, a white arrow against the deep crimson gash of the dawn-wounded horizon, until it reached the underside of a storm bank. It pierced the belly of the cloud, at the very last moment forking into a trishulshaped triad of spear points, and snaked its way in, disappearing. 

The wind died. The land fell deathly silent. The whippoorwills of spiralling ash settled down. 

Remotely, as if from the gargantuan belly of a beast at the bottom of some distant ocean, a deep rumbling began. It originated in the south and travelled northwards; the direction the asura armies had taken when swarming towards their mortal goal. It grew, building immensely until it seemed that the earth would shake itself to fragments, like an ant hill crumbling in a seismic tremor. 

Rama. 

With a banshee screaming, the storm cloud burst open. The hole made by the wisp of smoke in its belly spread like a spiderweb of cracks. The entire cloud bank came apart at those cracks, crumbling into fragments and sods of dirty blackish grey that resembled clay rather than cumulus. The sky shattered to release an immense burden of fluid. It was no ordinary rain that fell, for this was no ordinary cloudburst. It was the work of Brahman sorcery, unleashed by one of the most powerful Brahmin seers that had ever lived. 

A carpet of pearly-white water, drawn up by a tornado-like force in a continuous spume from the vast river that flowed only a few yojanas south of Mithila city, fell like a hail of boulders upon the blighted land. It struck the earth with the force of a thousand giants’ hammers pounding, raising a sound thunderous enough to chill the blood of tigers tracking prey in the distant mangrove swamps of Banglar to the east, and startle into stillness the doughty shaggy-footed mountain ponies on the high buttes of far northern Gandahar. 

The earth moaned beneath the onslaught, as every pitted boulder, twisted trunk, and jagged cliff-face was scoured clean of the scars of the Brahm-astra. The pounding went on for long moments, cleansing the land of all debris of the asura invasion, purifying it once more. Within hours, new life would sprout from the surface of the re-sanctified soil, and in mere days, the earth would appear much as it had appeared before the asura hordes trampled it and the Brahm-astra scoured it. Naïve travellers from foreign lands, unaware of the great asura massacre that had occurred in this region, would marvel at the lush beauty of these climes and attribute it to the presence of the sacred Ganga. In a sense, they would not be completely incorrect: it was ganga-jal, the waters of the mother-goddess river, that was now falling like rain from the tortured skies, and would accomplish this miraculous resuscitation. 

Atop the highest point in Mithila city, the tapering pillar of blue-tinted stone named the Sage’s Brow, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra lowered his hands, ceasing his chanting. He stood a moment, silently examining the fruit of his efforts. Flickers of lightning from the sorcerous storm illuminated his time-weathered features. In the flashes of blazing white, his snowy beard and mane of hair glowed bluish with the light of Brahman. His face, craggy and majestic as those of the ancient Arya settlers, of whom he was one, settled into a marginally softer expression as he saw the pounding waves of ganga-jal wash the land clean of the last traces of asura residue. 

For as far as his keen Brahman-accentuated eyes could see, the land was carpeted by the powerful rain of sacred waters. The cleansing rain continued unabated even after the last echoes of the upanisad mantra faded from his lips. He watched and was satisfied. 

As the rain slowed to a steady shower, he reached to one side and took hold of his wildwood staff, the head higher than his own and knotted with red, green and yellow thread, some threads new and brightly coloured, many more dull and frayed, evidence of ancient yagnas, long-ago balidaans. They marked the combined prayer-rituals of his five-thousand-year lifespan, with gaps marking the long centuries of penitential meditation, tapasya, that were the only hiatus in a life spent in the service of Brahman. Yet, if all those threads were unravelled, it would be seen that the staff below was scarred and gouged with ancient nicks and cuts. These were the evidence of an earlier life, a lifetime spent in pursuit of kingly ambitions and avaricious gain, conquest and blood-feud, war and reaving. For this staff had once been a sword, just as the sage himself had once been a raja. And for every scar the staff bore, the man bore one as well, marked by shiny trails of scar tissue that covered his entire body. 

The threads on the head of the staff were tightly wound into a thick knot. Vishwamitra gripped this knot with both his hands, reaching up to do so, and leaned his weight on the staff momentarily. It was a favourite posture, one he had grown accustomed to these past several days. There was much reason to seek respite, and little opportunity to do so. The events of these last days had been demanding, in some ways more demanding than most of his millennia-long lifespan. They had taken their toll. He looked forward now to joining the rest of his Siddh-ashramites at their summer retreat, high in the Himalayas, for a long season of rest and reparation. 

For a while, he was lost in contemplation, relishing the brief pause between calamities. Time passed swiftly, for he was accustomed to measuring his life by centuries-long penances, not mere moments, hours or days. 

When next he raised his head, the rain of ganga-jal had reduced to barely a drizzle. Already, shoots and tendrils of green were visible against the deep ochre of the purified, rejuvenated soil. His grey eyes watched idly as the tip of a tree-root emerged from the ground beneath a fallen boulder, then stopped, struggling against the obstruction. Vishwamitra raised a finger and gently whispered the tri-syllabic sacred Aum. A thousand or more yards away, the tree-root penetrated the boulder as easily as the trishul-shaped wisp of smoke had earlier penetrated the storm cloud. The boulder cracked and shattered into fragments, falling away to either side. The triumphant sapling grew up, up, up, rising a full yard and a half before slowing its rapid progress. Shoots of green life began to sprout on its fledgling trunk. 

The seer sighed and stood, looking upon his handiwork. For miles in every direction, new growth was flourishing, risen up to the height of a five-year forest in the brief instant it had taken the guru to utter the sacred trisyllables. 

He stared out at the distant horizon, at the first crimson-gold flush of sunrise above the blue-ridged mountain ranges of north-eastern Vaideha. His eyes filled with the luminescence of first light and the wetness of the moist air. With a great sense of regret, he realised that this would be the day he would take his leave of his new protégés and resume his life of bhor tapasya. His work here was done now. It was time for him to move on. 

Things had turned out well, he mused. As well as might have been expected. 

And yet. And yet. 

There was still so much he desired to do, so much else he would undo, if only it were possible. 

But his role in this great drama must end here and now. Thus had it been ordained. To interfere beyond this point would be to court epic disaster: the kind that undermined universes and toppled worlds. His mission had been to guide Rama thus far, and then depart. That much had been clear to him when he emerged from his 240-year-long bhor tapasya in Siddh-ashrama and began his journey to Ayodhya. 

But so much more had transpired in the commission of those apparently simple tasks. 

He had not only instructed Rama in the art of warring with the asura races, he had guided him through a dangerous rite of passage, overseeing the young boy’s maturation into manhood. Thereafter, he had brought Rama to Mithila in time to face the Lankan invasion, and he had thrust upon those slender shoulders the crushing responsibility of unleashing the dreaded Brahmastra. No guru should have to hand down such a terrible burden to any shishya, however able the pupil, and yet Rama had borne the weight as if it had been his dharma to commit that most momentous of acts. As indeed, it had, for what was a Kshatriya’s dharma if not to ensure the protection of his people? 

Yet the burden of responsibility rested on Vishwamitra’s shoulders as well. 

For he had not merely chosen a path to Mithila that he knew would cross the steps of Rajkumari Sita and her bodyguard, but he had also engineered events in such a manner that Rama and Sita would be thrown together for a brief but intense period, culminating in a crisis that would force them to condense what might normally have been a weeks-long or even months-long courtship into the space of a dozen-odd hours. 

In short, he had changed Rama’s life so dramatically in so short a period that never again could the young prince go back to being the same guileless young rajkumar he had been before Vishwamitra’s coming, sitting on the banks of the Sarayu with his brothers, sucking on salted kairee and dreaming adolescent dreams. 

And yet, what choice did I have? I was but a pawn in the great game of chaupat the devas play with us all. I pray you see that someday, Rama. That I too only enacted my part. Like you must. I pray that what I have taught you and given to you will be enough to see you through the dark trials ahead. Devas grant me that one wish at least: let my brief time with him be of some succour in the difficult years ahead. 

False dawn turned to true. Dusk to sunrise. Full-blown day lit up the panorama beyond the seer’s troubled brow and bent head until the clear light of day revealed the gangetic valley and plains to be so utterly transformed, it was impossible to tell that there had ever been anything here other than lush profuse vegetation. A million jewels of light refracted the luminescence of the risen sun. The warmth of Surya’s touch crept across the stone floor of the Sage’s Brow, touching the brahmarishi’s feet reverentially. 

He released a long-pent-up sigh. He must accept what was, and must be, and would be. No amount of thinking could change the course of the samay chakra. The wheel of time would turn. And with it, Rama’s life would take its inevitable course. He had done what he could to arm the young prince and prepare him for the epic ordeals that lay ahead in his bhavishya, that immutable future that was Rama’s destiny. That was his role and it was done. 

His task was finished here. He must now accept it and pursue his own destiny. Rama would survive. And more important, succeed. And he would do so despite the impossible odds stacked against him. 

It was best to believe that, and to move on. 

Feeling every moment of his five thousand years of life on the mortal plane, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra rose with a final sloka on his lips, and began climbing down the narrow, winding stone stairs of the Sage’s Brow. 

TWO
 

Vibhisena manoeuvred the Pushpak as low as he dared. The flying chariot responded as elegantly as it always did, hovering perfectly still, mere yards above the surface. An extraordinary aroma filled the air. A mixture of wet earth, floral scents and vegetation. He had seen the ganga-jal rain pouring down in the hours before dawn, and knew that it was Brahman work perpetuated by the seer-mage Vishwamitra out of Mithila. Vibhisena had been much too far from Mithila itself at the time– almost a hundred yojanas from the Vaidehan capital–to physically see the seer-mage working his miraculous feat, but he had known it was Vishwamitra’s doing all the same. No mere pundit, sadhu or rishi possessed such mastery over the force of Brahman. It had drawn a murmur of admiration from Vibhisena. A rakshasa out of Lanka though he was, Vibhisena’s soul belonged more to the light of Brahman than the dark powers of anti-Brahman. It was a guilty truth that he had attempted to conceal unsuccessfully all his life, never fooling the one person who truly mattered–his brother, Ravana. 

Understanding what the brahmarishi was doing, Vibhisena had waited until the rain passed. He was uncertain whether ganga-jal, holy water from the sacred Ganges, would act upon him the way it did his fellow rakshasas. After all, he used gangajal daily in his morning acamana, sprinkling drops of the blessed fluid to the four points of the compass before upending the contents of his silver lota over his own long, uncut tresses. And he suffered none of the reactions that other rakshasas did. The ganga-jal didn’t sear his flesh like acid, or cause his eyes to burst into flame, or his skin to peel off in layers like an overboiled potato. So had he entered the catchment of the Ganga rainstorm, it was unlikely any harm would have come to him. But he had never been showered by such a deluge of ganga-jal before; there was no telling what reaction it might have. So it had seemed wiser to wait. He had bided his time until the effect of the mantra had worn off. The rain ceased just as the first rays of the rising sun began to appear on the far horizon. 

That was a while ago. Since then, he had flown the Pushpak across the vast tract of land covered by the rainfall, marvelling at the sight of new growth rising up visibly before his eyes. Even the knowledge that this rain-washed region marked the remains of his brother’s entire army, including several of Vibhisena’s own brethren, could not assuage his sense of wonder at the sage’s mastery. Nay, he reminded himself as he scoured the surface below the Pushpak, moving the vehicle steadily along, it was not the sage’s mastery alone that amazed him; it was the power of Brahman itself. Never before had Vibhisena witnessed such an awesome display of the power of the celestial force. To have razed an area of lush countryside the size of a small nation one night, reducing an army of millions of asuras into grey ashen dust, then washed clean that same vast region, raising new growth and life the very next day, was a feat beyond rakshasa comprehension.