PRINCE IN EXILE (47 page)

A loud cheer rose from the far bank as the assembled forces applauded Bharat’s gesture. 

Bharat waited for Rama to take the sceptre, keeping his head bowed and his knee bent. After a long pause, he grew aware that the raj-taru was still in his hands. The cheering from the far bank died out slowly as the watching host saw that Rama had not taken it. 

Bharat looked up at Rama, his eyes brimming with tears. ‘Bhai?’ he said. 

Rama gazed down at his brother with an expression of infinite sadness. 

‘I cannot take it, Bharat. You know that. I must do as my father said. I must honour his last command. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this grand gesture. You have proved beyond doubt that you are indeed fit to rule Ayodhya. For only a king who does not seek power for his own selfish ends can be a good king. I can say now with full conviction that you will be a wise and just king, a great king. Make our ancestors proud, Bharat. Rule wisely and well. I wish you long life and happiness. Even when I return, fourteen years hence, I will be happy to live as your dependant, safe in the comfort of your just kingship. I ask only that you care well for my mother, for all our mothers, and treat our people with grace and justice. I beg of you now, do not follow me further than this point. If you love me, honour these last words of mine. Let me go into exile as our father promised your mother. Honour him just as I honour him with my implicit unquestioning obedience. To honour our elders and ancestors and live our life in accordance with the precepts of dharma, karma and artha – these are the only things that lie within our power. The rest we must leave to the devas. Go in peace, my brother and my king. Go back to Ayodhya and fulfil your destiny, as I go now to fulfil my own.’ 

And with those terrible, uncompromising, final words, Rama turned, took his wife’s hand and his brother’s hand, and walked into the forest. 

*** 

It was night when Kausalya heard Bharat return. The rumbling of chariots and thumping of elephants was a familiar sound, one she had grown used to hearing in Ayodhya, but never before had those sounds awakened such hope in her breast. She was waiting at the threshold of the palace, unable to eat or sleep or rest since two nights ago. No heralds had returned to bring word of Bharat or Rama, but she knew that Bharat himself would be riding as fast as any herald could hope to travel, and the lack of news had not worried her. What had worried her was the knowledge she had of her own son. Of his uncompromising adherence to dharma. Yet still she had hoped, prayed, wished. These hopes and prayers and wishes had been her only sustenance since the night of Dasaratha’s passing, the night her entire world had tilted from its axis and spun out of control. 

When she saw the gleaming armour-clad lines rolling up Suryavansha Avenue, she caught her breath, her eyes searching keenly for Rama’s familiar crow-black hair, his straight aquiline features, his strong jaw. But she found only Shatrugan’s stricken face riding at the head of the column. He dismounted without any appearance of pride or triumph and came walking to her with rounded shoulders. 

‘Maa,’ he cried, falling at her feet in a boneless heap. ‘Maa, I am sorry. We could not do it. We could not bring Rama back.’ 

Kausalya felt as if the ground had melted beneath her feet and she would fall through into the bowels of the earth itself. Into the arms of Prithvi-maa. 

But she had to be strong yet. For so many others, if not herself. For Rama’s sake, and Kosala’s future. 

‘Do not fret, my son,’ she said, raising him up gently. ‘You did the best you could.’ 

He looked up at her with anguish. ‘But I failed, Mother!’ 

She shook her head gently, fighting back the tears that threatened to rush to her eyes. ‘Nay. It was not you that failed. It was Rama’s dharma that won.’ 

He was silent, his head lowered. But he seemed to take strength from her acceptance. 

She scanned the avenue. The rows of mounted cavalry, elephant and chariot stood silently, their very silence revealing their bitter disappointment. There was not a single raised helmet in those endless rows. Even the elephants kept their trunks straight and low, sensing the mood of their mahouts. 

‘Where is your brother Bharat?’ she asked. 

Shatrugan looked up, raising his hands to show her. In his arms, she saw, he was clutching two bundles. One was the silk banner in which the royal sceptre was kept. She could not tell what the other bundle was. 

‘He has gone to Nandigram,’ Shatrugan said. 

‘Nandigram?’ Kausalya knew only that the town was a small, unexceptional place, squalid and rustic to the point of backwardness, totally unlike the rest of prosperous, advanced Kosala. It was notable only for its extremely northern position, on the very tip of the border between Kosala and the northern kingdoms, a rugged and harsh climate adding to the town’s longtime poverty and abjectness. ‘What business did he have in that wretched place?’ 

‘He has gone there to live,’ Shatrugan said slowly, as if each word was a weight he could no longer carry. ‘He asked me to tell you that this is his decision. If Rama will not rule in Ayodhya, neither will Bharat. He will live at the border and await Rama’s return from exile. Only when his brother returns home will Bharat re-enter Ayodhya. He has sworn this vow before the rock of Shanideva at Sringaverapura, in the presence of Guha, lord of Nisadas, Pradhan-mantri Sumantra, and myself.’ 

Kausalya’s head reeled. Bharat, self-exiled to Nandigram? Was there to be no end to the misfortunes that would befall this house? 

‘But my son,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice from turning into a wail of protest. ‘Who will rule Ayodhya now? Who will man the sunwood throne for the fourteen years until Rama’s return? The kingdom must have a king, the people a ruler!’ 

Shatrugan unwrapped the two parcels he was holding. From one he took the raj-taru, gleaming in the light of the mashaals. From the other he took a pair of wooden slippers, cracked and stained with dried mud and grass. ‘These are Rama’s slippers, left behind at Sringaverapura when he departed for Dandakavan with Sita and Lakshman. Bharat has asked that you place them upon the seat of the sunwood throne. Let them symbolise Rama’s true claim to the throne.’ 

Kausalya took the slippers, her head reeling. They were rough to the touch, yet the first thought that struck her when she felt them was:
Rama walks barefoot over the thorns and sharp stones of the forest paths. My Rama, exiled into Dandaka-van
. The touch of those rough, mudcaked wooden slippers almost undid her resolve. It took a new surge of determination to keep her from crumpling right there and then. 

Shatrugan handed her the gleaming king’s rod. ‘And here is the raj-taru, which Bharat has asked you to hold for Rama.’ 

‘Me?’ 

‘Yes, Maa. For as Rama’s birth-mother, you alone must carry the burden of his absence. You must rule as regent in his stead, until his return. There is no other way to prove Bharat’s honesty to the world and keep peace in the kingdom. With Rama’s slippers upon the seat of the throne, and the raj-taru in your hand, nobody will dare revolt or attack Ayodhya. The army also will obey your every command, for you shall rule in Rama’s own name. Bharat will be in Nandigram to support your governance and will add his seal to anything you present. But this heavy burden you must bear on your own shoulders. Bharat and I have debated much on the way back from Sringaverapura. It is the only way to maintain peace and keep Kosala united until Rama returns to claim his throne.’ 

Kausalya took the raj-taru as well, feeling the odd inequity of the cold gold-capped weight of the sceptre in one hand, and the grimy roughness of the wooden slippers in the other. And yet both were evenly balanced. She even found space in her mind to admire Bharat’s wisdom and foresight. Yes, he might be right. This might yet be the way to keep the kingdom peaceful and united. But
fourteen years
? She could hardly conceive of continuing thus for fourteen days! Merciful Devi give her shakti. 

Shatrugan touched her feet reverentially. ‘Now give me leave, Mother. For I go to Nandigram as well, to join Bharat. We shall live as ascetics there until Rama’s return. On the day he comes out of exile, we shall return to honour and celebrate his crowning. Until then, I beg you, give me leave.’ 

As distantly as an actor in a Sanskrit drama, she gave Shatrugan the ritual blessings and watched him walk down the steps. He mounted his horse, turned its head, and rode away. Only a handful of his closest men followed him. The seemingly endless rows of armoured soldiers stood silently beneath the flickering lights of the mashaals of Raghuvamsha Marg, waiting for her command. She grew gradually aware of the weight of the raj-taru in her right hand. Now she was the closest thing to a ruler the land had left. She must do what must be done.
So this is to be my dharma then. So be it
. 

She gripped the sceptre tightly. It was cold and hard to her touch. Silently she renewed the vow she had made to Dasaratha on his deathbed, Dasaratha who now lay embalmed in oil until his eldest son returned home to perform his funeral rites. Dasaratha who would lie thus until Deva knew when, for none of his four sons remained here to perform his rites any more. She missed him so much at this moment, as if a part of her own heart had been torn from her breast and embalmed with him. She would have to appeal to Bharat to return home to complete his father’s last rites at least. If he still remained steadfast, well, then … then under certain alleviating circumstances the scriptures did allow for a wife to perform the rites.
My beloved Dasaratha, whatever happens, you will be given due honour, I promise you that
. 

And when all the rituals were done, and the official mourning period was over … what then? How would she go about the business of governing a kingdom without a king? Without even a prince-heir, or a prince? Bereft and begrieved as she was, could she bear this heavy burden? The raj-taru seemed to grow heavier by the second, bearing the weight of all of Kosala, in addition to her intimate grief. Yet she refused to yield to its pressing pull, steeling her arm to hold it firmly, strong and steady as her Kshatriya calling demanded. 

The army waited for her next command. For she was all the authority that remained in Ayodhya now. 

Steady, my queen
. 

The words were so gentle, so close, she did not have to turn her head to know it was Guru Vashishta who had spoken. 

You hold not just the fate of a kingdom in your hands but also your legacy. Gather your strength and do what must be done. Fulfil your dharma. 

She did not turn her head, for she was afraid that she would find that he stood not beside her, that the voice in her head was just that, a voice in her head. But how could the guru speak directly into her mind space? Then she remembered the shakti that Vashishta commanded. The shakti of Brahman; the power of belief manifested. And with that came flooding back the shakti of her own beliefs, her own bedrock of faith. Her arm gripped the raj-taru tighter, higher. Her chin rose, firm and without a quiver. 

She remembered the words she had spoken.
Rama will return and be crowned king of Ayodhya
. 

Even if she had to wait fourteen years to see that happen. 

Rama will be king
. 

Slowly she raised the heavy sceptre as high as her hand would go. A sense of anticipation grew in the watching, waiting ranks. An elephant stamped its foot and raised its trunk, trumpeting once, commandingly. 

She raised her voice to be heard all down the silent avenue, infusing her words with every ounce of strength and confidence she now felt. She spoke now not as a mother, or a queen, but as regent, wielder of the sceptre of power and heritage, upholder of dharma. She spoke now on behalf of Rama himself, the rightful ruler of Kosala. 

‘Yuvraj Rama Chandra ki jai!’ 

Praised be the crown prince Rama Chandra
. 

The forces of Ayodhya echoed her words with all the energy and strength born of their grief and disappointment. The words were taken up by the citizenry next, echoing from the rooftops, the towers, the mansions, the hovels, the smallest hut and the largest palace. The echoes rang through the avenue, beyond its walls, rippling from marg to marg, house to house, neighbourhood to neighbourhood, across the seven walls and beyond them, to the farthest borders of the kingdom. And the words she did not speak aloud nevertheless rang out as clearly as the words of the guru spoken silently in her mind’s ear, filling every citizen with a sense of unwavering certainty. 

Rama will return
. 

SEVENTEEN 

Manthara stood in the Seer’s Tower, her arms held out to the wind and rain and elements. Her hair flew behind her, billowed by the powerful gusts of the stormy rain. It had been difficult getting up here. She had managed to stow away these past weeks somehow, hiding from the enraged citizens who sought to kill her for her role in Rama’s exile and Ayodhya’s misery. 

Unexpectedly, the tantriks had come to her aid. Not all of them, just the few fringe ones who worshipped the older pagan gods, like the man who had helped her procure the Brahmin boys for her sacrifices – and whom she had killed for his part in her forbidden practices. The tantriks didn’t know that she was the murderer, of course; she had fooled everyone into believing that his death was the result of his attempt to blackmail one of the king’s concubines. To the tantriks, she was a celebrity. Just being thrown out of the palace had won her their eternal support: or so she’d thought. They had kept her hidden until now. But today, they had told her she had to leave. The captain of the palace guard, Drishti Kumar, had come by some information through the city spasas. A raid was expected at any time. That was how far their devotion to the old gods extended – only so far as it didn’t endanger their own precious hides. So they had turned her out as well, and with them she had lost her last allies. Where could she have gone next? Out of Ayodhya? To wander the countryside for ever, living in rags and picking at berries? She might have done that if she could. But with her distinctive appearance, even that option was denied her. A white-haired hunchback with a limp could hardly be missed. She would be stoned at the first village she passed, or speared by the first sudra hunter who laid eyes on her. To the tantriks Manthara was a celebrity; to the rest of the world she was a witch and a traitoress.