Prince of Dharma (63 page)

Lakshman had suffered a pang of guilt. He felt he hardly deserved this recognition after being unconscious through most of the fight in the Southwoods. But when he said as much to the brahmarishi, Rama interrupted and insisted that he should not refuse such gifts. He had agreed only to avoid spoiling the ceremony, but now he was glad the guru had armed them with the astras. As the rakshasas swooped down from the sky, riding through the air by some strange shakti, he stepped forward. He knew what to do. He would use the Manava astra to dispel them both in one blow. It would be ironically appropriate to destroy the rakshasas with the shakti of his ancestor Manu Lawmaker himself. 

But as he released the astra at the approaching asuras, Rama moved in front of him, shielding him. Lakshman cried out in frustration and diverted the astra at the last minute. It went astray, striking Mareech a glancing blow on his shoulder. 

Even so, it was powerful enough to fling the rakshas back with the force of a catapult launching a pebble. The demon was thrown a hundred yojanas distant, landing in the Great Ocean, his shoulder shattered. But he was still alive. Lakshman knew this because the astra returned in a flash to him and showed him the result of its action. 

Before Lakshman could cry out to Rama to move from his way, Rama had unleashed one, two, three astras in rapid succession. Lakshman stared in disbelief as the astras of Agni, Vayu and Indra struck the rakshas Subahu simultaneously in a magnificent display of coordinated shakti. 

The rakshas was quartered to the four winds, burnt alive, and his remains reduced to charred ashes by the three astras of fire, wind and lightning. 

As suddenly as it had begun, the assault was over. Lakshman blinked, unable to believe the fight had ended so quickly. Around them, the Vajra Kshatriyas looked around uneasily, their swords and maces still unsullied, their arrows unshot. They muttered nervously, glancing at the two princes. 

When the yagna ended at dawn the next morning, Lakshman turned to Rama and broke the ritual silence. ‘Why did you block my way, bhai? I would have destroyed both of them with Manu’s astra. They would both be dead now. Instead, you let Mareech escape.’ 

Rama looked away. ‘His injury was grave. He fell far out in the ocean. He won’t survive.’ 

‘But why did you do it?’ 

Rama looked at him. ‘I didn’t want to lose you again.’ 

Lakshman felt a surge of anger. ‘Just because I was knocked unconscious once doesn’t mean I’m helpless, bhai! I can fight as well as you can. I don’t need your protection,
big
brother!’ 

Rama nodded. ‘I did what I thought was right at the time. I’m sorry if I hurt your pride, Lakshman. It won’t happen again.’ 

Lakshman’s anger faded. There was more to this than Rama was telling him, he knew. 

‘Rajkumars.’ 

Vishwamitra’s face glowed with a new intensity. The brahmarishi had visibly gained strength during the yagna and now he looked and moved like a man who had shed fifty years— or five hundred, considering his age. He fed them both the prasadam from the yagna with his own hands. Lakshman let go of his questions and doubts as he received the sanctified fruits of the sacrifice and repeated the ritual thanks. 

‘Your service has come to an end, rajkumars,’ the brahmarishi said with a smile. ‘You have fulfilled your dharma with great success.’ He glanced at Lakshman. ‘And great sacrifice. Soon, we will return to Ayodhya where you will resume your lives as royal princes of your illustrious line. Your father will be proud of how well you conducted yourselves on this your first spiritual mission. And the people will rejoice in the knowledge that you accomplished the cleansing of the dreaded Bhayanak-van. No more will Aryas fear to enter those fearsome woods again. In a generation or two, they will be the site of cities as great as Ayodhya and Mithila. And you made all this possible, my young shishyas. You have done me proud.’ 

The sage beckoned to the Vajra commander, who was standing in line awaiting his turn to receive prasadam. 

‘Vajra Commander Bejoo insists on accompanying us back on our return journey, and I have consented to allow him to fulfil his orders.’ 

Bejoo acknowledged the sage’s generosity with a namaskar and a bow. 

‘His associate Bheriya will ride back to the capital to inform Maharaja Dasaratha of the good news, so that when you return home, you will be welcomed back with full pomp and ceremony as befits two victorious princes of Ayodhya.’ 

He gestured to his rishis, who handed the prasadam to Bejoo. ‘Kshatriya, on behalf of all at Siddh-ashrama, I thank you for your service in the duty of your rajkumars. Even though you disobeyed my wishes by following us, your sacrifices in Bhayanak-van more than absolved you of your error.’ 

Bejoo seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He bowed his head as he accepted the prasadam. 

‘You are too kind, mahadev. Will the rajkumars and yourself start your return journey today?’ 

‘Yes, good man. But we shall not be returning directly to Ayodhya. We shall be visiting Mithila first.’ 

Bejoo blinked. ‘But that will take us a full two days out of our way. Rajkumar Rama Chandra is to be crowned prince-heir on his sixteenth naming day, less than eight days from now.’ 

‘And he shall return in time for the coronation. But this detour is unavoidable. I have important business in Mithila and I would prefer that the rajkumars attend me. After all, do not forget that they are still oathsworn to me until such time as I hand them over personally to their father the maharaja.’ 

The commander wrestled with his thoughts for a moment, then sighed. ‘As you say, mahadev. With your permission, I shall dispatch my associate to Ayodhya at once with this news as well as the earlier information. Aagya, gurudev?’ 

He bowed to the brahmarishi, then to the princes. 

‘Thank you for your service, commander,’ Rama said formally. To Bheriya, standing to one side deferentially, he added: ‘Good journey.’ 

Bheriya thanked them with a namaskar and both Bejoo and he retreated to the waiting chariots. Bejoo put his arm around the younger man, giving him his last instructions. 

‘Rama,’ Lakshman said. ‘Why does Bejoo-chacha look at me so strangely, as if I’ve grown four ears or something? I just don’t understand it. He used to be so nice to me back when we were boys.’ 

Rama shrugged. ‘People change.’ 

Lakshman wanted to argue that point but Rama had already turned back to the seer. 

‘Gurudev,’ Rama asked. ‘If you will pardon my asking, what business requires your presence in Mithila?’ 

The brahmarishi nodded agreeably, relaxed and contented after the yagna. ‘I must attend a marriage.’ 

‘A marriage? Whose marriage, gurudev?’ 

Vishwamitra smiled cryptically. ‘Yours.’ 

SAMAPTAM

ONE 

Bheriya sensed the attack an instant before it came. He and his men were on the dirt path that led up to the cliff. A few yojanas and they would reach the plateau overlooking the Sarayu valley, within sight of Ayodhya. The path was narrow and overgrown, his arms and face criss-crossed with scratches inflicted by some of the more intrusive branches and bushes, yet he rode as fast as the available light and the way would permit, eager to reach Ayodhya and convey his news. 

The rajkumars are safe; their mission was a success.
All of Ayodhya would cheer when they heard his tidings; the maharaja would be overjoyed. Then Bheriya could go home to his new bride and they would resume where they had left off celebrating their suhaag raat. He was thinking of just how that particular celebration would go when he saw the movement on the boulder up ahead. 

The path wound uphill and turned sharply, following the curve of the cliffside. At the turning, a large lohit-stone boulder protruded, looming over the path. The ambush came from atop the boulder. 

At first Bheriya thought it was a deer of some sort. He glimpsed speckled downy fur and large doe-like eyes. Then the creature rose up to its full height, silhouetted against the light of the almost full moon, and he saw its skin ripple, changing in seconds to something quite un-deer-like. 

‘Rakshas!’ he shouted instantly. ‘Savdhaan! Enemy above! On the rock!’ 

His men reacted at once. The moment he yelled, they left the path and began to fan out, separating and encircling the boulder in question, arms at the ready. Bheriya stayed on the path, his spear ready and poised even before the creature moved. 

As the rakshasi leaped off the boulder, roaring with rage, Bheriya threw the spear. It sped through the air headed directly for the creature’s chest. But at the last instant, the rakshasi twisted and dodged the flying missile in mid-air. She fell into the thick undergrowth, vanishing from his sight. 

‘Surround and destroy!’ he ordered. ‘Be alert for more enemies!’ 

He reached for another spear, hefting it expertly as he guided his horse forward. It had been a rakshasi, he was sure of it. He had seen the ugly horned head and the gaping teeth and the unmistakable bulge of its feminine chest. But why had he mistaken it for a deer at first? It didn’t matter. What concerned him now was finding the beast and killing it swiftly. And making sure it was alone. 

He assumed it was a straggler that had survived the battle in the Bhayanak-van. The Southwoods had been still blazing fiercely when he had left Siddh-ashrama earlier this afternoon, and his party had had to take a wide detour to avoid the enormous swathe of the fire. This creature had undoubtedly escaped both the battle and the fire and was crazed and confused, blindly seeking to avenge its fallen companions. He would soon dispatch it to join those companions. 

The sounds of bestial howls and human cries exploded from the thick undergrowth up ahead. 

He had seen a pair of chariot cutting through the bush on his orders, running to the right. 

Those were four of his best men. Then the human cries broke off with chilling abruptness, and he knew that the rakshasi had drawn first blood. 

‘Jai Shani-deva!’ he cried, riding into the bush. His horse thrashed through the scrub and trees, and he swatted aside flailing tree limbs. 

He came upon the chariots and stopped. They were all dead, slaughtered. Not just the chariot riders and the bowmen; the horses too. 

Cursing, he backed his horse to the path, calling to his men to regroup around him. He realised too late that the tactic he had chosen had been the wrong one under the circumstances. It would have worked had there been a whole herd of rakshasas. But because there was only one, the thick brush gave it cover from which to strike and flee, while blocking his men. 

‘To me! Vajra, come to me!’ 

He found the path again and turned his horse around, reeling round in circles, trying to find his men or the rakshasi, either of them. All about him, the undergrowth was exploding with screams and cries of pain and terror. Could one rakshasi be doing so much damage? How could she move so fast? She had been relatively small, barely seven feet high, and slender, lithely muscled. But then he remembered her bared fangs as she had leaped from the boulder, gleaming in the moonlight. And those claws, yes, those claws. 

He wheeled about, trying to get a fix on her position. He crashed through the undergrowth, finding men unhorsed, their throats slashed, bellies cut, horses disembowelled. All around him, from every direction at once it seemed, the cries of terror continued unabated. 

‘To me, Vajra!’ He was angry now, furious at being duped so easily by a single asura. How had she known they would separate and fan out? Could a rakshasi know a Vajra’s military tactics? Surely that was impossible! 

He broke through the bush, finding the path yet again. And stopped. 

She was standing in the middle of the path, waiting for him. Her talons and mouth dripped dark viscous fluids in the silvery moonlight. She was crouching like a bear in a river waiting to catch a fish. 

The sounds of his men had ceased. They were all dead, he realised. 

He hefted the spear in order to judge the throw perfectly. He waited for her to make the first move, determined this time to strike his target. A Vajra Kshatriya never missed twice. 

Yet he did miss. 

And she didn’t. 

*** 

Supanakha licked herself clean. The mortal blood tasted salty and acidic. She spat it out in disgust. She had lost the taste for blood long ago. But there was no way to avoid swallowing some when ripping out throats and slashing bellies. It was that part about killing mortals she disliked, the vile saline taste of them.