RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (19 page)

She straightened her face as she approached the small group of senior ranked military officials standing around Rama on the avenue. The Saprem Senapati had delegated the removal of the damaged gate to a junior and was among them. She had not had time to know the rest very well, but she recognized them by face at least. They looked as sombre and grim as the court ministers had been, and it was still something of a small shock to her to watch this gathering of half a dozen important martial commanders, each in charge of a sizable military force on his own, deferring to Rama. Her Rama.
He is king after all, as well as Supreme Chief of all military forces of the entire kingdom, what did you expect? A ragtag gathering of vanars and rksaas?

“—convene this very hour, in closed session,” Rama said. Apparently he was done, for as he finished speaking, the others all nodded brusquely, and began to move away, talking softly amongst themselves. They looked troubled and she saw one or two of them glance back at Rama as if reassessing him dubiously.

He was looking at her. “We are under siege, it would seem.”

Her heart thudded. “Then what the rakshasa said—”

“No, not rakshasas, or asuras. A human force. A league of armies. At our gates, as we speak. Bharat and Shatrugan are attempting first contact, but they’re clearly not here to parley, not with that number of spears and swords and elephants.” He paused. “And siege machines.”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Shall we go to the seventh gate?”

Rama shook his head. “No. Bharat is already there. He will return any moment. What I want you to do is wait here for him and bring him and Shatrugan up to the Council Room the moment they arrive. He is to speak with nobody else until he sees me – emphasize that.”

She nodded. “Mahamantri Jabali and the others wished to speak with you on some matter of protocol.”

Rama shook his head. “There are more urgent matters at hand. They can wait. Remember, see that Bharat and Shatrugan come straight to the Council Room. I will be in closed session with the War Council, awaiting them.”

“The War Council?” she said, her heart thudding. “What do you intend to do?”

Rama put a hand on her arm, just above the elbow, his palm shockingly cool on her overheated skin, “Whatever I must.”

She watched him walk away from her, back into the palace.

TWO

Hanuman watched with mounting concern as the vaids conferred among themselves. Finally, they turned and looked at the blackened figure lying upon the pallet in the centre of the chamber. They shook their collective heads and spoke a few more words in whispers. Then they filed out one by one. Hanuman managed to stay the last one long enough to hear his wise pronouncement.

“He is beyond help,” said the vaid. “Only the devas can help him now.”

The vaid left, taking his satchel of condiments and ointments with him.

Hanuman crouched down on his haunches, resting his elbows on his thighs. He gazed at the maharishi’s frail, burned form for a long moment.

Finally, he came to a decision.

“You risked your own life to save that of my friends. To save countless innocents,” he said softly. There was nobody else in the chamber apart from himself and the still silent form on the pallet. “You acted in support of my Lord Rama. You cannot be permitted to die. Maruti, son of Vayu and Anjana will not permit that to happen.”

He left the chamber, loping down the corridor. The guards, accustomed by now to his comings and goings, still started slightly at the speed and power of the furry body racing through the palace but he was always gone before they could do so much as lower their lances; as he went, his preternatural hearing picked up their voices thanking Lord Vishnu that he was on their side. He flicked his tail as he raced away.

He saw a particularly large contingent of soldiers guarding the inner palace where the queens and princesses and children resided, as well as the court house where mantris and courtiers milled about in agitated debate

– apparently the War Council called by Rama had not yet begun its session. He knew Rama would send for him when it was time; or not. Either way, it did not matter. He had a task to accomplish and he would see it through. Vaids were only good up to a point. There were things the vanars of the redmist mountains knew that even the most learned vaids of Aryavarta would give their right arm to know.

He leaped off a balustrade, swung down another floor, and then ran down another corridor before reaching his destination: his own chambers. They were bare and unappointed, as he had requested. He did not actually spend much time here – he preferred to sleep in the trees on the Northern bank where the air was clear and natural, the water cool and fresh, and where he could keep an eye on the road to Ayodhya. That was where he had been this morning when he had spotted Valmiki coming. He bent down and rummaged through the straw pallet which he used only when he felt the need to be closer to Rama, although he still could not bear sleeping within the confines of four walls and a ceiling.

He found the herb he had been seeking and took it back to the sickroom, moving as quickly as before – the guards winced but made no move this time. The maharishi lay as before. Hanuman made use of the silbutta grinding pestle and mortar and Gangajal and other implements of the vaids, grinding the herb with Gangajal into an unguent ointment which gave off a potent but not unpleasant odour. The cooling scents of camphor and eucalyptus tickled his nostrils as he worked – even swinging through a grove of eucalyptus trees made him sneeze – and when he was done the concoction was a dark, blackish-brown paste.

He used a wooden ladle to smear it gently across the maharishi’s body, taking care to cover every inch of skin. He paused when he was done, considering whether or not to turn the body over to cover the rear. But doing that would rub off the ointment he had smeared on the front, would it not? Finally, he decided to leave well enough alone. He could always do the rear once this application had done its work.

Just then the wind changed. He raised his snout, sniffing the air curiously, his ears and snout twitching as his powerful senses drew information from the wind – his father’s domain – the way a fish could read the meaning of every ripple in a pond.

The message on the wind was clear to read: It was the ripe red stench of man-hatred and imminent violence.

Bharat felt a brief pinch of pain at the sight of his maternal uncle. Yudhajit and his younger sister Kaikeyi, Bharat’s late mother, bore a striking resemblance. In the brutal years following Rama’s exile and her husband’s death, Kaikeyi had been ground down to a pale spectre of her former self. Her demise a few years after the departure of Rama had been as inevitable and sad as the event itself: she had died repenting everything she had done. What good had she achieved by exiling her own stepson and, since Sita and Lakshman had joined Rama in exile, her daughter-inlaw and other stepson as well? Bharat had taken an exile of his own, refusing to take the throne from which his brother had been displaced unfairly (in his and virtually everyone else’s opinion), moving to the remote village of Nandigram from where he managed the kingdom’s affairs for the next fourteen years, refusing even to come and meet with his mother, and offering her perfunctory formality during the times she came to visit with him. Dasaratha had died of a broken heart. Urmila, Lakshman’s wife, had been reduced to a wife-in-waiting for fourteen long years. And Ayodhya itself, that prize which Kaikeyi had desired so desperately for her own son, had all but risen up in resentment against Bharat over the exiling of Rama – it was only Rani Kausalya’s iron hand and the unwavering support of the armed forces that had maintained peace in the kingdom this long. The assassination attempt this morning was lingering proof of the long-festering outrage still felt by many over Kaikeyi’s machinations. And Manthara, the daiimaa who had nearly broken an empire and divided a family, had died within hours of Rama’s leaving; in her wake, Kaikeyi had fallen to pieces. Her last days had been sad, miserable ones and Bharat still felt like burying his face in his hands when he recalled them. Which was why he tried as much as possible not to do so.

But now, looking at those same familiar features mirrored on his uncle, that aquiline profile and handsome face, he felt a biting pain in his heart. In her battle armour, astride her own charger, his mother had looked not unalike the figure that greeted him now. As a boy at Brahmarishi Vashishta’s gurukul during the seven years of compulsory education every high-born Arya child underwent, that image had been the one that had always been uppermost in his mind’s eye. It had impressed itself upon his psyche so greatly that he had aspired to cut as striking, as goddess-like, as fierce and imposing a figure as that image of his mother, someday. It was the same image he still carried rather than the wasted, haggard, self-hating Kaikeyi who had died crawling across the floor of her chamber in the deep watches of night – as if she had been fleeing some unspeakable nightmare witnessed in her bed – and had been found moments later, dead, laying on her back cringing in a rictus of either pain or some unnameable terror, a sad death for an Arya queen. He always thought of the younger Kaikeyi, haughty, proud, arrogant, and no less a warrior than any male of the Kekaya clan, the way he had seen her during his early years. Looking at his uncle now was like recalling that childhood memory again. He pushed the memory aside with an effort.

“Mama-shri,” he said, striking a balance between filial familiarity and princely authority. “What brings you here on this fine autumn morning?”

Yudhajit stayed astride his battle-horse, making no attempt to dismount or to offer any gesture of filial familiarity. When he spoke, his tone, made harsh by years of daily chewing betel leaves and areca nut, was no warmer than if he had been addressing any gatewatch guard or sipahi.

“Yuvraj Bharat, as Commander of the akshohini of Kekaya, it is my duty to inform you that I represent the league of Aryavarta nations and am acting under that authority. We order you to open your gates and permit us to search the city of Ayodhya at once. Failure to obey will result in our taking the city by force, however regrettable that action.”

Bharat frowned. He had never been addressed by his uncle in such a tone or manner, not even in the most heated arguments. Whatever his many faults, Yudhajit-mama was not a man given to formal language and gestures. Where was this coming from?

“Mama-shri,” he tried again, attempting to establish some familiar basis of contact. “You are always welcome in Ayodhya, as you well know. What is the reason for this armed force and aggressive demands? Whatever your issues are, surely we can sit down and talk them over? After all,” he added with a shrug and a smile, “we are family.”

Yudhajit stared down at him coldly. That look, those grey eyes staring down at him from beneath the graven visor; the way he sat on his horse without inclining either his torso or his head by even an inch; the cold, disapproving pause; the silence with which the rest of the force stood by

–
even the horses and elephants weren’t whickering or whinnying or moving restlessly, how was that possible?
– set off silent alarm bells in Bharat’s mind. Something was terribly wrong here and he sensed that no amount of talk would resolve it. Suddenly, he wondered if the old veteran Somasra had been right after all. Coming out here was a mistake.

“Your words carry no weight,” Yudhajit said unexpectedly. “We know that the imposter is on the sunwood throne. He controls everything, your minds, your souls, your words and actions even…you are no longer Bharat my sister’s son. Merely a puppet in his power.”

Imposter? What is he babbling about?

Bharat was too shocked to find any words to reply at once; before he could manage even a perfunctory, polite response, his uncle spoke again in the same vaguely dismissive monotone.

“Stand aside or join our cause,” Yudhajit said. “Either you are with us or against us.”

This last statement Bharat had heard often before – it was the tired refrain of all tyrants, arrogant asses and bullies everywhere. Those arrogant and selfish enough to want everything their way
right now
and incapable of tolerating any difference of opinion. It was the kind of thing his uncle might say, but it also confirmed that old Somasra was right. Talk would achieve nothing good here, but it might well make things worse.

But what was he babbling on about before that? What did he mean by ‘the imposter is on the sunwood throne’? Is he talking about Rama? What madness is this?

He had used his peripheral vision to scan the frontline as he walked from the gate. He knew every one of the six men and two women in the fore, all seated astride horses, kitted out in full battle regalia. They were all leaders of substantial armed forces, representing three major kingdoms and three smaller holdings that were pledged to Ayodhya – and more importantly, paid taxes. From the unnatural silence and fierce glassy-eyed stares on all their faces, and the way they had stayed quiet while Yudhajit had spoken, Bharat deduced that they deferred to Kekaya in this matter. Which was odd in itself; at least two of the smaller holdings and one of the large kingdoms were not allies of his mother’s homeland by any stretch of definition. For them to take up arms against the might of the Kosala nation thusly, unprovoked and unjustified, and to defer to Kekaya thus – to Yudhajit no less, known for his arrogant and abrasive manner – was a mystery of vast proportions. He could not fathom it, nor understand what power Yudhajit could wield over them to make them act thus.