PRINCE IN EXILE (43 page)

Rama looked at Sita, seated cross-legged beside him. ‘These people are giving me their evening meals,’ he said. ‘The food they would normally eat at the end of a hard day’s work. On what will they and their children sup tonight?’ 

‘I don’t think any one of them will sup tonight, Rama,’ she said. ‘Look at their faces. They look like pilgrims on their way to a shrine to ask the Devi’s forgiveness for past misdeeds.’ 

Rama looked. Despite the rousing reception his speech had elicited, the people were still dejected and forlorn. He had succeeded in calming their anger and clearing their confusion; nobody doubted now that he would go into exile and that he was doing so of his own free will, uncoerced. But that still did not mean they were ready to accept the facts of the matter. The crowd, swelled now to well over five thousand, filled the entire clearing and the surrounding palm groves, seated cross-legged in the manner of devotees awaiting a darshan of a beloved deva, their faces still turned hopefully towards Rama, as if praying that somehow, by some miracle, he would relent and change his mind. A dhobi, his wife and their large clutch of children of various ages sat with their knees up, gazing desolately at Rama. They were among those who had given him their meal and now sat fasting like the others. Several yards to the right, a young pubescent girl sat by her father, their rigs and bows indications of their occupation: Mithilan archers, two of several hundred who had joined Ayodhya’s armies after Mithila began laying off its armed forces years ago. The girl stared at him with complete concentration, her heart-shaped face streaked with the tracks of dried tears, as if willing him mentally to take back his words, turn back to Ayodhya and kingship. 

He looked away, unable to see any more. To his left, Lakshman stood on the eastern side of the knoll, staring out at the river. The crowds kept coming, thousands upon thousands seeking their banished prince, seeking answers, hope, salvation, and devas knew what else. They were giving him their day’s food; they would give him their lives if he but asked. What did he have to give them? Nothing but words and promises, ideals and inspiration. A poor substitute for wheat and rice and a king’s grace. 

He rose to his feet abruptly, walking to where Lakshman stood. To the right, downriver, where the Tamasa veered sharply westwards, the saffron rays of the setting sun slipped through gaps in the trees of the palm groves, igniting the contours of Lakshman’s body and face. They had performed their eveing sandhyavandana a few minutes ago, accompanied by the whole gathering of Kosalans, all squatting by the edge of the riverbank and following Rama’s every action and gesture to perfection. Droplets of water still lay beaded on Lakshman’s arms and back. His fists and jaw were clenched. He flinched when Rama laid his hand on his shoulder gently. His eyes when he turned were filled with shadows cast by the sun at his back. 

‘Bhai?’ he asked. 

Rama glanced around. Sita had risen to join him and Lakshman. Sumantra was continuing to accept offerings of food from the endless line of commonfolk, trying to find room on the already over-full shawl. 

‘These people will not let me go alone into exile,’ he said. 

‘Nor will we,’ Lakshman said. 

Rama smiled. Lakshman smiled back, a dark smile that told Rama of the darker shadows lurking in his brother’s heart. 

‘There is no way to make them return to their homes and leave us to journey onward to Dandaka-van,’ Rama said. 

‘If you ask me, I think they would rather die than let you go on alone.’ 

Rama looked at him closely. 

Lakshman indicated the crowded clearing. ‘I mean these people, of course.’ 

‘Of course,’ Rama said quietly. ‘Their mission is to try to make me change my mind and turn back to Ayodhya, to restore myself to my former place and inherit the kingdom.’ 

Lakshman shrugged. ‘I couldn’t have said it better.’ 

Rama nodded. ‘And I will not do that.’ 

Lakshman looked at him intently for a long moment, then looked away. ‘You will not.’ 

‘That is why,’ Rama said, turning to look at Sita and include her in the discussion, ‘it would be best if we wait until they are asleep, then slip away quietly in Sumantra’s chariot. If we ride all night, by morning we will be too far ahead for them to catch up with us.’ 

Lakshman and Sita were silent. 

Rama went on after a pause, ‘The Dandaka-van is a big place. Once we enter the forest, they will hardly be able to find us. Although I hope that they will not try to follow us at all.’ 

He glanced back at Sumantra. ‘To be sure that they do not follow us into the jungle, we will send Sumantra back to dissuade them and tell them which way we went.’ 

‘Tell them which way … ‘ Lakshman began, then stopped. ‘While we actually take another route into the jungle?’ 

Rama nodded. ‘That is all we can do. The rest we must leave to the devas and the common sense of these simple folk. I trust they will not do anything foolish after we are gone.’ 

Sita said softly, ‘Whatever they do, it is not your fault. You cannot protect them any more. After all … ‘ She hesitated before adding, ‘They are no longer your people to protect.’ 

He looked at her sadly, the dusky light of twilight casting her lovely features into shadow as well. ‘You’re right. They are not my people any more.’ 

FOURTEEN 

They made their move late into the night. It had taken several hours for the gathering to subside into something resembling sleep. A large throng of new arrivals had broken down, distraught, at the sight of Rama, and their weeping had set off a chain of wails and chest-beating and hair-pulling throughout the clearing. By then, the crowd on the west bank was easily ten thousand strong. The ferries had stopped plying because the river’s spate had made it dangerous to do so in the dark of night. But from the thickening masses of shadows and the sounds from the far bank, Rama estimated that another ten thousand or more would accumulate by morning. At one point, he thought he caught the distant rumbling of wheels and hoofs, as if a large, heavy contingent was on the move. It carried in the stillness of night even above the ceaseless roaring of the river. He turned uneasily in the dark, reminded for some inexplicable reason of his distant memories of childhood, when his father used to ride out to quell regional disturbances and enforce the peace among the quarrelsome pahadi clans. A part of him longed for the simplicity of that childhood, when the days seemed to last for ever, the nights passed in a wink, and the sky appeared to him to be the blue-tinted palm of a benevolent deva who would protect the world from all threats. 

Where was that deva now? The sky had turned dark and pressed close upon his face, threatening to suffocate him. 

He sat up slowly. Sita was instantly alert and whispered, asking for the third time that night if he would eat something before they left. He had already told her twice earlier that he would take only water until they were in Dandaka-van and he had fulfilled Kaikeyi’s orders to the letter. He made no answer this time, and crept quietly to the tree trunk against which Lakshman sat, watching. Lakshman turned his head before Rama could touch his shoulder and rose to his feet. 

They went down the far side of the knoll, walking through the grove until they found the open spot where Sumantra waited with the chariot and a lantern set to the smallest wick to prevent the light from being seen by any of the commonfolk. He raised the lantern, twisting the knob that widened the wick slightly, producing a brighter spill. Rama saw that the pradhan-mantri had already harnessed the horses in preparation. His lined face gazed at Rama silently, with the faintest trace of hope. 

‘We must leave now, Sumantra,’ Rama said very softly, putting to rest any further arguments. ‘We will lead the horses as far as we can, then ride. If it is all the same to you, I will take the reins.’ 

Sumantra offered no argument. Since sunset, the prime minister had settled into a kind of resigned acceptance that was in some ways worse than his earlier resistance. They walked for about a mile, far enough to be out of easy hearing of the crowd by the river. When they were all mounted and ready to ride, Rama looked at Sumantra by the light of the lantern. 

‘Old friend, perhaps you should stay here and reassure the people when they awaken. Your place is with them, not in the jungle where we go now.’ 

Sumantra looked ahead at the dark, narrow mud-path winding between closely pressing rows of dense forest. 

‘I don’t know where my place is any more,’ he said in a broken voice. ‘Or even if I still have a place in this world. If I do, then that place is with you, Rama. I will ride with you as far as you will let me.’ 

He turned to look at Rama, his eyes rheumy and jaundiced in the yellow glow of the lantern. ‘If you command me, I will dismount at once.’ 

‘No,’ Rama said. ‘It is our privilege that you ride with us tonight on this last journey out of Ayodhya.’ 

He raised the reins, making sure that the team understood his intent and were ready to obey. They had settled well since the brush with death and the river. They raised their heads, snorting softly, awaiting his command. He tugged the reins, then flicked them forward, giving the animals their head. 

‘To Dandaka-van,’ Rama said, to nobody in particular. The lead horse, Kamabha, whinnied softly, as if acknowledging their destination.
This time
, he seemed to say,
I will not let you down, my lord
. Rama flicked the reins again, setting the chariot into motion.
Ride then, my beauty, ride with all your strength and speed
. 

The chariot moved forward, rolling quietly into the dark night. 

*** 

The very humility in the queen’s face, the abject self-effacement of her deglamorised appearance and apparel, all brought home the change in her with painful impact. Could this truly be Kaikeyi? Proud, beautiful, arrogant Kaikeyi? She of a thousand charms and a million desires?
No. This is Bharat’s mother Kaikeyi, Dasaratha’s wife, my sister-queen
, Kausalya thought. 

‘Please,’ Kaikeyi repeated. ‘I only wish to say—’ 

Dasa sat up in his bed, sweat flying off his face. ‘Get this woman out of my sight at once. Guards!’ he roared. ‘Take her away.’ 

Kaikeyi ran to the bed, breaking away from the guards before they could take proper hold of her. ‘Please! I beg you. All I ask is your forgiveness. I knew not what I was doing.’ 

‘You did it,’ he said savagely. ‘That was enough.’ 

She stared up at him as the guards descended on her, grabbing her by either arm, remorselessly. Every soul in the palace knew the details of what had transpired in the kosaghar last night and early this morning; Kaikeyi’s own guards had made certain of that, turning coat upon their own sigil in sheer disgust at the monstrous injustice wrought by their clan-queen. Kausalya would have stopped them, or at least ordered them to handle her less roughly, but Kaikeyi worsened her own lot by straining at their muscled arms, crying out to the bed-ridden maharaja with all the manic hysteria of a crazed woman. 

‘I RELEASE YOU,’ she cried. ‘I RELEASE YOU OF YOUR BOONS!’ 

‘Ah,’ he said, as if a dart had found its way to his heart. ‘But that release is no longer yours to give, my beautiful one.’ 

‘I love you, Dasa,’ she sobbed then, as the guards began to drag her away by the arms, pulling her across the floor to the entrance. ‘I love you, my prince!’ 

For a moment his face crumpled, and Kausalya bent forward, thinking to catch him before he fell. But he only swayed from side to side momentarily, like a drunken man staggering at the threshold of his home, and grinned a lopsided maniacal grin. ‘If only that was all it took to make the world turn,’ he said. Then, to the guards, ‘Hold her a moment. I wish to speak words.’ 

They stopped at once, but retained their iron grip on Kaikeyi’s arms. She flopped miserably like a rag doll in their grasp. ‘Scribe,’ Kaikeyi heard one of the guards say, turning his head to address one of his fellows outside the door. Almost at once, a court scribe appeared, his pigtail bobbing upon his shaven pate, the wooden scribe-board, scroll and other instruments clutched eagerly. He sat down on the floor at the foot of the bed, virtually out of sight of the king and Kausalya, and was ready to take dictation in a moment. Scribes were ever present to transcribe the maharaja’s words, but tonight, Kausalya guessed, they were that much more alert. Tonight they would transcribe a maharaja’s last words. 

Dasaratha bent his head for a moment, as if in some deep contemplation. When he raised his brow again, Kausalya saw, he almost appeared normal. Her Dasaratha. The maharaja who looked exactly this way when he pronounced judgement in his court on any one of the innumerable cases brought before him in his decades of service as a king of the realm. 

‘Rani Kaikeyi, I divorce myself of our nuptial bond. From this moment on, you are no longer my lawfully wedded wife, nor I your lawfully wedded husband. You are free to return to your father’s roof, or to any other place you desire. You have no place here henceforth. In my reckoning, you have broken the vrath you made at our nuptials, so many years ago. You have brought great pain and humiliation and shame to me and to my family, as well as to my people. I do not wish to see you ever again, whether I live a thousand years more, or merely another instant. Go from my sight, and do not return. This is my aadesh, my royal decree, both as your husband and as your king. For a king is always king first, husband second.’