RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (65 page)

Lakshman turned in his seat to look at Aarohan. The captain of the king’s guard was looking in the direction of a tree branch which he appeared to find exceptionally fascinating. 

“Is this true?” Lakshman demanded. “You and your men did all this? This adharmic slaughter?”

Aarohan turned his cool blue gaze back to Lakshman. “These women are whores and outlaws. Every Arya knows that the Southwoods are fit only for asuras and outcastes. No decent Arya people reside here. The whole region is aranya, wilderness, and as such comes under no legal jurisdiction.”

Lakshman heard Bharat curse and come up beside him, unable to listen silently any longer. “Who do you think you are, you arrogant ass? Do you know whom you speak of? What gives you the authority to go where you please and kill who you wish in this fashion? No Arya kshatriya would do such things! Not on the honor of holy gurus or our sacred Vedas!”

Aarohan smiled coldly. “Whatever I do is under the authority of Samrat Rama Chandra of Ayodhya. I answer to him and him alone. Now, I have had enough of this bantering. While we stand here chit-chatting about outlaws and their pathetic kin, the sacred horse is getting farther away. Stand aside and let me do my job.”

“No,” Lakshman said, reaching a decision. He drew his sword slowly and calmly, with deliberate care. The steel sang out as it scraped the rim of the sheath, the sound ringing out ominously in the sudden stillness of the forest afternoon. He held the sword across the saddle of his horse, not raising it or brandishing it just yet, but keeping it ready to deploy in an instant. “You have done enough already. I am taking charge here. You are ordered to return to your superior officer and report to him until further notice. I shall go after the horse and retrieve it myself as protecting the stallion is my task. Turn back and leave here, Captain Aarohan. I command you in the name of my brother and by my right as a Suryavanshi Ikshwaku. I command you on pain of death!”

And now he raised the sword and pointed it directly at the king’s guard captain. Aarohan didn’t flinch or react in any way. He stared directly at Lakshman, his eyeline in perfect level with the length of the sword. Their eyes met over the yard’s length of burnished Mithila steel and Lakshman, accustomed to looking his enemies in the eye before a battle, saw that the man held no fear or anxiety at all. Instead, Aarohan lowered his chin, deepening his gaze like a predator marking its prey, and smiled with supreme confidence. 

“I shall go for now, Yuvaraj Lakshman. But I shall return soon enough. Not just with half a company,” he gestured at the fifty-odd men behind him, “but with an army. The entire might and power of Ayodhya shall be with me when I come back. And then we shall see who gives the orders here, and who comes first to a painful death.”

And he snapped his horse around and barked a single word to his men. As one, they turned and rode out of the woods, in the direction of the raj-marg. Every single one glared in Lakshman’s direction as he turned, and Lakshman realized grimly that the captain of the king’s guard was not merely bluffing or speaking idly. He meant every word he said and he had the authority to do exactly as he claimed. 

“Devi help us,” Lakshman muttered, then sheathed his sword and turned back to face the others. “What is going on here?”

A man stepped forward. It was one of the PFs. Lakshman recognized him at once as former Vajra Captain Bejoo, most recently employed as a grama-rakshak. 

“I believe I have a fair notion, Yuvraj Lakshman,” Bejoo said without much joy in his tone. “And if you do not act quickly and contact Maharaja Rama Chandra before Captain Aarohan does, I think this brewing conflict may well turn into a full-blown war. That is the intention of those who have put this devious plan into motion.”

FOURTEEN

Luv and Kush slowed the horse and looked back. 

“Nobody’s following,” Kush said. 

Luv agreed. He couldn’t hear or sense any signs of a pursuit. 

“Maatr and Nakhudi and the olduns must have stopped them dead in their tracks,” Kush said, with complete confidence. “Maybe those three strangers helped too. I saw the way they were looking at Maatr. They know her. Maybe they’re rishis in disguise, or they took up arms and became kshatriyas.”

Luv turned to look questioningly at his brother. 

Kush shrugged. “Parasurama did it. In the story Guruji told us.”

“Those are puranas, Kush. Those things happened eons ago, in the Satya Yuga. This is a modern era, Treta Yuga. Brahmins don’t go around riding horses and pretending to be kshatriyas. Besides, those three were royalty of some kind, did you see their ensignia?”

Kush frowned. “The embroidering on their clothes and saddlebags?”

“Yes, and the markings on their armour and their sword sheaths. If they’re not princes or kings of someplace important, I’ll eat this horse.”

The sacred horse whinnied in protest. Kush patted his neck affectionately. “Don’t worry, big fella. I won’t let him eat you. He’s just exaggerating as usual.”

“You’re the one who’s always exaggerating, not me.”

Kush cocked his head. “You’re the one who just said he would eat the horse!”

Luv shrugged. “Well, I would. If I were wrong. But I’m not wrong. I’m right. Those three strangers were royalty! I bet you this whole forest they were!”

Kush looked around doubtfully. “Do you own this forest?”

Luv frowned. “Well, it doesn’t belong to anybody. It’s just aranya. Uncivilized wilderness.”

Kush grinned. “Aha. If it doesn’t belong to anybody, it can’t belong to you. So it’s not your forest! So how can you bet it away?”

“Well, I haven’t lost it yet, have I? I’m just saying, if I was wrong about those three strangers being royalty, then I would give you this forest. But I’m not wrong, I’m right! So it doesn’t matter whether or not I owned the forest in the first place!”

Kush giggled. “I bet you the moon and the sun!”

“What?”

“I bet you the moon and the sun that those three weren’t princes or royalty. They were probably just…house builders!”

Luv gaped at him in astonishment. “House builders?”

Kush shrugged. “Or sculptors. Or road-repairmen. Or army cooks. What difference does it make? I’m just saying!”

“And if you’re right—though I’m not sure which one you would be right about, since you named half a dozen professions—then you’ll give me the moon and the stars?

Kush wagged a finger. “No stars. Just the sun and the moon, that’s all.”

Luv laughed. “Okay, so you have yourself a deal.”

He spat on his palm and proffered his hand. 

Kush spat on his own palm, then slapped it against his bhraatr’s damp palm. “If they’re royalty, you get the sun and the moon. If they’re not, I get the forest.”

Luv smiled. “Done.”

“There’s only one problem, Luv.”

“What?”

“How do we know who they really are?”

“Kush, they’re going to come after us sooner or later. We’ll find out in time.”

“Okay then. What should we do now? Until we find out, I mean?”

Luv looked around thoughtfully. He looked at Kush’s rig and touched it. “Get ready for the murderers. They’ll be coming after us sooner or later, probably sooner. We should be ready when they come.”

Kush’s eyes brightened. “A real fight!”

“Yes! A really real fight. We’ll need LOTS of arrows. And other stuff. And traps. And hidey holes. And tree machans. And tunnels. And…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Kush said happily. “Let’s go to work on it. We don’t know how much time we might have.”

“Oh I know exactly how much time we have before they come after us.”

“You do? How?”

Luv gestured upwards, at the slivers of sky visible through the dense tree cover. “It’ll be dark soon. They won’t risk coming into this deep into the woods after dark, especially not after a black horse in the deep woods. All we’d have to do is stand still and they wouldn’t find us for days.”

“You mean they wouldn’t find us for nights.”

“Yes. That’s what I meant. So they’ll come in the morning, at sunrise.”

“Long before that,” Luv said scornfully. “They probably expect to have caught us by sunrise.”

“By dawn then? Even before that?”

“Just before. When it’s just light enough to see and yet too dim to be seen easily. They’ll probably assemble at the same place around two hours before sunrise, then try to track us…”

“At which time, we’ll be ready and will lead them on a wild and wonderful merry chase!” Kush said. “All right, let’s go.”

“Wait, what about Maatr and Nakhudi?”

Kush thought for a moment. “All right, once we’ve made our arrangements, we’ll go back and check on them.”

Luv twisted around and looked east. The sun was low on the horizon, only an hour from sunset. “There isn’t much time. It may be too late then.”

“So you think we should go back and check on them now?”

“Yes, but we can double back by a wide circuit, leaving confusing tracks at the same time.”

Kush patted the side of the horse and whispered in his ear. He made a horse sound that sounded remarkably like a girl chuckling. He turned of his own accord and began trotting back the way they had come. In moments, he was cantering then galloping as if he had lived in the deep forest all his life and knew his way about as well as a dray horse knew the city streets. 

“He’s enjoying this, you know, the rapscallion,” Kush said. 

Luv patted the rump of the horse affectionately. “Good for him.”

“So are you,” Kush said. “I can tell.”

“That’s because you are too.”

They galloped through the woods.

***

“What? How could this have happened? What were Yuvraj Lakshman and former pradhan mantri Sumantra doing at the time?”

Rama’s dark skin seemed to grow more bluish in hue when he got angry. Which had been a rare occurrence in earlier days but had increased in frequency of late. Right now, for instance, he was displaying the first warning signs of a rising temper. 

He rose from the travelling throne on which he had been seated and paced the spacious royal tent that had been set up on the north bank of the Sarayu just beyond Mithila gate to accommodate the royal entourage for the night. 

Bringing up the rear of the great procession, they had barely covered two yojanas distance from the  capital.
A whole day, to travel less than 18 miles from Ayodhya,
Kausalya thought as she watched her son pace the carpetted floor of the tent.
A pleasure trip would have been more useful.
Devi knew Rama could have used one rather than this uncalled-for campaign. 

The courier explained to Rama that Sumantra was dead and Lakshman feared missing in the deep Southwoods, last seen in pursuit of the stolen sacrificial horse. 

“What other word do you have of the incident?”

The man shook his head to indicate that he had exceeded the extent of his knowledge. Kausalya knew that royal couriers were not wont to hold back messages or information; they usually blurted out everything they knew the instant they were permitted to open their mouth. That was their job, after all. Rama’s question was pointless. She was more saddened by the news of Sumantra’s death. That old sweet man…what a pity. 

“At least he died fighting like a kshatriya,” whispered Sumantra softly. Kausalya and she were watching from the far side of the tent, where they had been about to partake of some light refreshment together with Rama. But Rama had barely bitten into a piece of apple when the courier had arrived. And he would not simply let the man deliver his news and depart as was the usual practise with couriers.

He persisted even now: “Come, come, man. You must know something else of what happened. Who were the parties who stopped the horse and issued the challenge?”

“Unknown, sire.”

“And where exactly did this occur? On the Mithila border?”

“No, sire,” the man replied, glad to have a question he could answer, “well away from it. In aranya territory, no man’s land.”

“I see,” Rama said thoughtfully. He paced another few steps then swung around again. “But that does not make sense! Why would anyone capture it in undeveloped territory? If nobody claims that region then in turn nobody can challenge the authority of the throne there! It’s a completely pointless act of political aggression.”

“Not for some people,” said Pradhan Mantri Jabali as he ducked his head to enter the royal tent. He turned and dipped his head slightly to indicate respect for the royal Maatrs, then turned his attention back to Rama. “The aranya territories may not belong to any kingdom per se. But precisely for that reason, they provide a lawless haven where unknown numbers of brigands, dacoits, highway robbers, outlaws, outcastes, Magadhans and other such undesirable elements gather and proliferate. As you know, Samrat Rama Chandra, I have repeatedly proposed to you that we clean up those territories once and for all.”

Rama shook his head impatiently. “There is nothing to clean up. The Southwoods are deep, savage, inhospitable forests. Those few who venture within out of sheer desperation struggle to stay alive, let alone flourish. Those poor dregs of society pose no threat to the Arya world.”

“Ah,” Jabali said, glancing at the repast spread out before the Maatrs and examining it with the air of a man who actively disliked food, his lanky skeletal frame testifying to that fact. “I forget that you yourself once lived among these very dregs of society, during your years of exile. You must have come to depend on these sordid elements, for reasons of survival. Every Ayodhyan continues to bear a deep regret for the long suffering you endured during those years. But, sire, it does not change the fact that it is in places where such dregs and filth proliferate that the seeds of rebellion are often sown and flourish.”

“Rebellion?” Rama looked doubtfully at the prime minister. “Nonsense! The aranya folk are too busy surviving each night without bothering their heads with plans of political opposition!”

Jabali wagged a long bony finger in disagreement. “Nay, sire, do not underestimate them. Even the lichen and moss growing on the backroom wall seems benign for years until the day it suddenly sprouts poisonous mushrooms. Who knows what dark hatreds ferment and fester in those dark woods? Perhaps you do, of course, having lived among them. Tell me, were they all filled with universal love and affection for our Arya ways and our polished, noble society, ruled by the four precepts of Artha, Kama, Dharma and Karma? Were they not driven by some modicum of resentment and loathing for the society which had cast them out and of which they could never be a part again?”

Rama picked up the apple from which he had taken a single small bite and looked at it. “I had hoped to be able to rehabilitate those people one day.”

Jabali made a sound of impatience, clicking his tongue. “Such beings cannot be rehabilitated. They are tainted, beyond the purview of decent, civilized human society.”

“They are humans too. And many were Arya once. Ayodhyan even.” Rama’s tone was declarative but tinged with sadness, rather than argumentative. As if he knows he is rehashing a debate he has already lost a long time ago, Kausalya thought. 

“Once, perhaps. Not anymore. They are no more than insects now. Venomous, barbed insects beneath our consideration.”

Rama protested. “They are people. Fellow mortals. With families.” 

“Criminals. Unforgiven. Exiles.”

At the last word, Rama flinched. It was very slight, not a visible reaction, barely a flicker in his pupils, but for a man so well in control of his senses, that was as much as a grunt of pain from most ordinary men. Kausalya felt her own heart ache with empathy. Exiles. That word had applied to her Rama as well, alongwith his brother Lakshman and wife Sita, not long ago. Almost a third of his entire life had been spent in exile. The very word must sting like the metal tip of a lash. 

He turned and looked at Jabali with the same calm steady expression with which he greeted everything, but Kausalya knew his heart must ache a great deal more than her own. For while she could empathize with his past suffering, he had endured that suffering himself. Nothing could compare. And what he was saying now with his silent reproachful look was that Jabali should know that and be more considerate of how he spoke. But the prime minister appeared to have deliberately turned his face away from Rama for a moment, under the pretext of looking at something or other. 

Rama turned to the courier, who was still standing and waiting patiently.  

“You may go,” he said. 

The courier left with obvious relief. There were courts in which men who accidentally overheard important matters of state or king’s secrets were often executed in order to preserve state privacy, such executions performed with an air of sorry-but-you-know-we-have-no-choice but which were nevertheless quite final all the same. That had never happened in Rama’s court but that was only because Rama did not approve of what he termed ‘excessive danda’. It was a concept and term that she herself had taught him as a boy, and she was proud to see that he still adhered to the precept. It told her that her Rama still lay within the body of this man, this emperor of dharma who sought to rule the known world. She could still appeal to him then, when the time came. And it was approching soon, she knew.