Prince of Dharma (25 page)

It was a long speech, from one who was not accustomed to speaking much, and Dasaratha knew it. He had paused before the sabha hall doors to look at his old gurukul partner, erstwhile charioteer, trusted adviser, then minister, and now prime minister. He laid a weary but still powerful hand on Sumantra’s shoulder. ‘The devas grant that it shall come to pass exactly as you say.’ 

Sumantra gripped his maharaja’s wrist. ‘It shall. I am willing to give my last breath to see it does. And so is every Arya citizen. Be not fearful, raje. Be proud. You have built a great nation, and now you shall see the fruits of your labour.’ 

Dasaratha nodded. ‘I shall take a little rest now before speaking with Brahmarishi Vishwamitra on the other reason for his visit. He wishes to do so privately. Are my sons safely back in the palace?’ 

Sumantra frowned. ‘They ought to be, your highness. Captain Drishti Kumar went to secure their entry into the palace gates several moments ago.’ 

Dasaratha caught the unsaid message in his tone. ‘But?’ Sumantra shook his head slowly. ‘The captain has not returned yet.’ He managed a reassuring smile. ‘I shall look into it myself, maharaj. As long as the rajkumars reached the palace gates, they will surely be safe. But I shall check personally. Depend on me.’ 

‘I do, Sumantra. But do check. This is a strange day. And I expect stranger things yet. Make sure my sons are well and safe.’ 

*** 

It took Lakshman a moment to realise what he was hearing. At first he thought it was the death chant of the Kali cult. It was usually chanted by conscripts who were sent into a battle from which they would not return alive. To the tantrics, of course, it was an anthem of their dark faith that hinged on the belief that the coming Kali-Yuga would mark the end of human civilisation. He realised that the Kali chant was being sung by some of the cultists in the mob across the road. Then he heard the dholdrum of the PFs, the steady four-beat they marched and fought to, based on the traditional four-by-four beat to which all Arya rituals were conducted by Vedic custom. He had failed to catch these two disparate rhythms, drowned out as they were by the cacophony from the crowded avenue behind. 

But when Rama began to sing, Lakshman heard and understood what he was trying to achieve. 

Unable to appeal to the two clashing groups with logic and commands, Rama was resorting to patriotic emotion. After all, this was Holi feast-day. A day when all Aryas embraced their fellows and celebrated the completion of yet another year of their proud civilisation, while inaugurating the onset of yet another harvest year. Each Arya nation had its own special day, but Holi and Deepavali were special to all the Arya nations. 

Rama was singing the traditional Arya farming song, ‘Dharti Maa’. Literally, ‘Earth Mother’. When he began, the rhythms of the PF martial beat and the tantrics’ Kali chant had mingled to form a toll as deathlike as a funeral march, an ominous duet of doom. 

Above this dark symphony, there now rose the melodious anthem of ‘Dharti Maa’. Rama’s voice was a clear tenor with perfect pitch and just enough bass to lend it depth. As he sang the opening sloka, Lakshman instantly felt the change in the atmosphere. The ancient anthem had great power, believed by some to turn desert lands fertile and calm the most ferocious predators of the wild. Even if those were exaggerations, the power of the anthem on Arya ears was undeniable. Lakshman could feel the hackles on his hands and neck rise as Rama sang the beautiful, stirring words that praised the mighty subcontinent that housed the seven nations of the Arya clans, addressing the land that nourished and provided for them, their mother, their devi. 

Without stopping to think, Lakshman stepped out into Jagganath Marg, walking around the startled PF regiment and their commanding officer, and stood beside Rama, raising his own voice to join Rama’s song. He didn’t have to look behind to know that Bharat and Shatrugan were following as well. He ignored the prickle of fear that came when he found himself hemmed in by the trishul-wielding tantrics and spear-holding PFs, taking courage from his brother’s lead. If it was Rama’s fate to die here on a side street of his own capital city, killed by the hands of his own people, then Lakshman would die the same death. 

As they approached the second verse Lakshman felt something strange and wonderful happen. 

It was as if a giant cloud had been pressing down on the whole concourse all this time, making everyone uneasy and restless, and some violent and agitated. With the singing of the anthem, Lakshman felt the cloud begin to lift. 

And then he felt an even more wonderful thing. Others were singing too. Stray soldiers in the PF ranks. Voices rising uncertainly from the tantric mob. And further away, around the corner and up the avenue, past the cordon of PF veterans, the citizens were picking up the song too. Like all anthems, this one had a way of touching your heart no matter who you were, where you were, or what you were doing at the time. For those few moments that the ode to Mother Earth lasted, every Arya, young or old, male or female, high-caste or low, noble or impoverished, was united in a bond as ancient and undeniable as their mutual dependence on the gifts of food and life that the earth deity provided. 

The anthem came to an end. Lakshman’s voice died away, as did his brothers’. There was a brief moment of deafening emptiness. 

And then, it was all over. 

TWENTY-THREE 

Manthara cried out with rage and threw the sacrificial trishul into the yagna fire, obliterating the image that had appeared there, an image of the happenings on the turn-off to Jagganath Marg. 

The trishul, identical to those carried by the tantrics in the scene she had just witnessed with the help of her asura witchcraft, clattered into the chaukat, the sacred ceremonial square used for Vedic rites, and was lost in the billowing flames of the fire. She screamed at once and leaped forward to try to retrieve it. Throwing the trishul might be interpreted as disrespectful, and she had taken too much care with the whole elaborate ritual to spoil everything now. She bent over the energetic flames, fuelled by prodigious amounts of ghee and the remains of the Brahmin boy that she had sacrificed earlier. There. Between an almost denuded thigh bone and the skull with its contents still bubbling. She reached into the fire, burning her hands and losing her eyelashes and eyebrows as well, and retrieved the trishul. 

It was flaming hot. 

She clutched it firmly, enduring the unbelievable pain, and tried to understand what had gone wrong. She had thought it such a clever plan, to use the tantric’s murder to incite a civil riot. Or at the very least a stampede. With several hundred thousand men, women, children and animals thronging the avenues, ringed in by armed and nervously alert soldiers, starting a riot had seemed easy enough. And things had been going so well. The tantrics and Brahmins had fallen for the bait just as she’d known they would. And the PFs had done their job as usual. With the malevolent mantras she’d released into the avenue earlier, the minute the maharaja and those two seers had been cloistered away in the sabha hall, their minds should have been clouded by confusion and senseless rage long enough for them to engage in violence that would perpetuate its own cycle of retribution. It had been a brilliant plan. A major civil riot would have broken out over a tiny, irrelevant non-issue. And at the right time, she would have sent out a mantra to inflame the horses of the PFs on Raghuvamsa Avenue and cause a panicked stampede. A bloodbath should have resulted. 

‘Rama!’ 

Yes. Rama had come into the picture. And had spoiled everything. She still didn’t understand how he had done it. By singing an anthem? That was ridiculous! How could people be moved by a stupid patriotic song? What was a country anyway? Just a land occupied by different people. What was there to get so emotional about? 

Yet he had done it. Had broken her mantra’s power. Dispelled the dark fugue she had tried to cast over the minds of the groups involved. Turned her plans to dust as easily as wiping out a sloka written in sand. True, her powers were still nascent, still growing. But she had tried so hard. And sacrificed so much. Just to have kept her worship of the Dark Lord of Lanka, Ravana, secret for so many years: that itself was a great feat in this holy deva-worshipping city of Ayodhya. Surrounded by an ocean of self-righteous Aryas, she had kept the tiny black flame of asura faith alive here single-handed. Even Kaikeyi, her erstwhile ward and queen of this mighty kingdom, did not know the truth behind her power and influence. What it had cost Manthara to elevate her to this position. But all this was to change, starting today. And nobody, let alone a stripling of a boy, should have had the ability to thwart her dark designs. 

‘Rama!’ she cried out again, waving the trident in a hand blackened by deep oozing burns. 

Foolish hag! 

The voice that boomed forth from the heart of the fire was as fiery as glacial ice applied directly to an exposed heart. It blazed with cold, nihilistic rage against her, enveloping her in black flames. 

She gasped and struggled to bow her head, touching her forehead to the ground. ‘My lord! I did not sense your arrival!’ 

How dare you speak that name in my sacred space? Have I not forbidden you before? 

She searched her mind desperately, ignoring the agony of torture the flames inflicted on every inch of her being. It was like being whipped with fire and ice both at once. ‘My lord? You mean, Rama?’ 

Do not speak it! Foolish creature! 

‘My lord, I …’ She bowed again, repeatedly, striking her forehead on the floor until the skin broke and blood began to flow, bubbling instantly as it encountered the flames that enveloped her. ‘Shama! Mercy, my lord. Shama!’ 

You would be wise not to underestimate that one. He is a creature of dharma, and they are not easily dissuaded from their path. 

‘My lord, never again. I beg your forgiveness.’ 

For your blasphemy, and for your failure this day, I should excommunicate you at once. This is how I ensure perfect discipline in my ranks. The soldier that falters, dies. You have done more than falter, Manthara. You have failed me today. You were given tasks to perform; none were successful. You know how I deal with such failures. 

Manthara cried out in naked terror: ‘No, my lord! I beg you! Do not abandon me! I shall do penance to atone for my error. I shall never utter that filthy word again. I beg you!’ 

The fire raged around her still, as if relishing the taste of her fear. She was in a state beyond agony now. Her entire being was seared through with liquid heat, unbearable and inescapable. 

Finally, the fist of fire released her, returning to the chaukat. 

Only because I have need of you, wretched one. But make that error once more and excommunication will be the least of your fates. 

Manthara trembled silently. Her head was bowed low enough that her forehead touched the rim of the chaukat itself. She could smell the stench of her hair burning. And somewhere through the mist of pain and mutilation she knew she had soiled herself in both ways. Still she abased and abused her tortured self. The Dark Lord was a greedy deity and it was better to give more than less. Finally, she felt his anger abate slightly. 

I will withhold your penalty for the time being. But remember, it is only in abeyance, not erased. Now, pay attention, hag, for it is vital that we do not let this setback affect our greater plans. 

‘My lord,’ she begged, her voice quivering with terror. ‘Whatever you say, it will be done. I will not fail thee again.’ 

Even as we speak, both those old Brahmins are working their insidious charm on Dasaratha. Soon, he will concede to Vishwamitra’s demand. 

Manthara raised her head slowly. Her eyes were bright red, blazing coals in her dark face. ‘My lord, if you will it, I can go into that sabha hall and use my powers to destroy them all. In one act of terror, we will be rid of all the ruling heads of Ayodhya. The princes will have joined their father by now, and—’ 

Stupid, stupid woman. You would destroy yourself, use your shakti to explode like a human bomb, would you? That is not an act of courage, you twisted crone. It’s utter idiocy. We want that sabha to end peacefully. We want Maharaja Dasaratha to agree to the seer-mage’s demand. That is our plan. Do you understand now? Or do I have to scourge you again to get it into your thick head? 

Manthara’s mouth hung open, trailing a line of thick saliva. ‘My lord …’ She swallowed. ‘Truly, you are magnificent.’ 

Enough. I tire of this discussion. When I have need of you again, I will call upon you. The Day is at hand. 

The flame caressed her gently, insinuating itself into the sockets of her eyes, making the fluids bubble and stream down her face. Manthara quivered in ecstasy. 

And when Ayodhya is in my clasp, you will be rewarded. Here is a token of my appreciation.