RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (18 page)

He had to stop it
here
and
now
. It was the reason he had come, why he had been sent.

He felt a change in the air battering his body and tried to open both eyes for a moment. They teared at once and he was not surprised to see a reddish tinge to the world; the spores had entered in high concentration, infecting his organs of vision already. But now he faced a more immediate danger: even at a slower speed, he was still falling, and the closer he got to ground, the faster the inevitable pull of gravity. He saw with horror that the spores had spread out far across the city, to the farthest corners, and the bulk of the cloud’s mass had dissipated already. He was too late!

Even as he saw this and felt rising panic, the spores that had been designated to attack him renewed their assault with added aggression. He felt the poisonous molecules push their way through his very skin, making their way in through his pores, making blood-sweat pop out on his skin as they made their way into his bloodstream. He writhed in agony. He felt the fire of their contact with his blood and the murky pain of their venom as they dissolved instantly, mingling with his precious life-fluid. Already, the effect upon his body was near-fatal. He could not survive more than a few moments longer. And from the way the spores had spread across Ayodhya, it did not seem possible that he could use these last seconds of his life to achieve his mission. He looked down and saw the ground of the avenue only a hundred yards or less below him, flying up to meet him at increasingly greater speed. His mind struggled to finish the mahamantras correctly, for any omission or slip meant starting over from the beginning, and he was running out of time.

This cannot be the end,
he said, fighting with all his will.
I came here to serve a purpose. I must fulfil it! I must thwart the prophecy!

But his limbs were already numb, his belly blazing with a heat that felt like a red-hot iron rod inserted into his navel. And he could feel darkness clouding his brain as he began to drift into unconsciousness. He finished reciting the mahamantras but already it felt pointless. He would be dead before he hit the ground. And while the mantra was taking effect – he could see the spores falling away from his body, deadened and rendered ineffectual by the shakti of the mantra – he knew it would not disable all the far-flung spores in time to save the city.

There was only one chance left and he took it without thinking of or caring for the consequences to his own person. He uttered another brief two-word mantra, one that was designed to cause conflagrations. One of the two words was a secret name of Rudra, He Who Was Shiva, The Destroyer Of Creation, adding a potency sufficient to reduce an entire forest to smouldering ashes. It was one used only as a last resort, but he was beyond desperate now: he cared not that he would die, only that he must succeed, not for the sake of personal glory or legend, but for the thousands of innocent Ayodhyans who would die for no fault of theirs.

He uttered the last phrase of the shloka just as consciousness left him completely. He slipped into the final darkness without knowing whether he had succeeded or failed in his desperate attempt.

A collective gasp escaped the throats of all those upon the avenue. Looking up at the sage Valmiki falling through the dissipated cloud of greenish black spores exuded by Kala-Nemi – nay, the cloud of spores that
was
Kala-Nemi – they watched in horror as he burst into blinding white flame. So explosive was the effect that most were forced to cover their faces with their hands, and even through their fingers they felt the searing heat of the conflagration.

The ball of fire that had been a human being an instant ago blazed fiercely as it fell towards the ground – moving at an unnaturally slow speed as if some unseen force cushioned its descent and defied the natural law of gravity. The searing white flame that enveloped the sage’s body shot out in all directions like spumes which raced at blinding speed along the tentacles of spores that extended across the city’s rooftops, snaking down into houses and streets and mansions now. As it whooshed through the air like a hawk in pursuit of a pigeon, thousands of spores were fried instantly by its searing passage, and fell in wisps of ash to the ground. In a moment, the entire network of dark tentacles was reduced to fingers of white flame, blazing brightly for a fraction, then extinguished for want of anything left to burn.

In distant streets and lanes, miles away from the palace, as citizens went about their work or stood in groups discussing the rumours of strange unnatural events occurring elsewhere in the city, including some staring up in morbid fascination at the strange phenomenon descending from the sky, the white flames caught up with individual spores as they were about to enter one man’s ear, a woman’s nostril, a child’s body through an open cut on his left shoulder…. The people in question barely noticed the spores that would have brought about their death in hours, and completely failed to notice the tiny wisps of ash that now lingered floating in the air, little knowing how narrowly they had escaped a horrible, writhing death.

Gazing down from his vantage point, Hanuman watched in dumb fascination as the rishi’s last act found success in the nick of time, destroying the last of the poisonous particles that were all that remained of Kala-Nemi. He had seen and heard and understood all. And now he also saw that the rishi’s final sacrifice would result in certain death as his blazing body finally approached the very Prithvi Maa he had prayed to so fervently only moments earlier. Barely a minute had passed since he had let Valmiki fall. Yet in that minute, the rishi had acted more bravely than any defender of this great proud city. Surely he could not be allowed to die now?

Lunging with a determined roar, Hanuman bent down and reached for the burning body. His fingers closed around it and he roared again with agony at the scorching heat of the white flames as he grasped the body of the sage. He remained still for a moment, regaining his balance, and noted that the sage’s falling body was barely two yards from the broken rubble on the avenue when he had caught him. He shut his fist tight, then closed his other fist upon it, shutting out all access to air in a bid to douse the flames. He kept his paws shut tightly thus for a moment, praying, ignoring the pain and the singed fur on the backs of his paws. After a few moments, he opened them and stared down mutely at what remained of the great sage Valmiki.

KAAND 2

ONE

As Bharat approached the towering, barred top of the seventh gate, a few flecks of white ash drifted down around him. He ignored them and nodded at the gatekeeper in charge of Ayodhya’s first line of defence. Although to visitors it was the first gate they encountered when entering the city, for Ayodhyans it was the last and outermost, hence the seventh. Among the sub-varna of kshatriyas that manned the gates generation after generation, it was a matter of pride that the seventh gate boasted the toughest security. It was here that the biggest fights, feuds and brawls tended to break out, especially amongst those who were afraid of flaunting Ayodhya’s well-enforced laws against physical altercations within city limits. Only the toughest and most weathered PFs tended to get duty here, and the man who nodded curtly at him looked like a fair specimen. He was a grizzled veteran with the signs of his tours in the Last Asura Wars prominently displayed on his purple-black uniform, a bear-like man who must have been a formidable sight fully armoured on the battlefield and was impressive if sagging even now, aging roughly, almost entirely white-headed – what little hair he had left – and Bharat had seen his familiar face peering down over the top of the seventh gate ever since he had been a boy. The younger man standing beside him looked half his age but what he lacked in grizzled appearance he made up for with an impressively built physique and a certain calm and deceptively slow look about his face and body that Bharat recognized at once as signs of a skilled and tested fighter. He wondered idly if the younger man was the elder’s son – family traditions ran strong in Arya varnas – then focussed on the matter at hand. There were more important things at stake here. The future of his entire dynasty and kingdom, for one.

“Gatekeeper…” he elicited.

“Somasra, PF,” replied the older man sharply.

“Gatekeeper Somasra, open the sally port on my command, shut it immediately after I pass through and open it again only on my command

– and after you eyeball me personally. Am I clear?”

The veteran nodded slowly, leaned sideways over the edge of the bridge, hawked and spat a jet-stream of blood-red tobacco juice into the moat. Something thrashed and rolled far below. “Pardon my speaking out of turn, yuvraj, but think you ‘tis wise to venture forth to that mob?”

Bharat sensed Shatrugan about to bark a rebuke and squeezed his brother’s arm, stilling him. “You
do
speak out of turn, oldun. But wise or not, it’s necessary.”

The man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – Bharat noted that the man’s forearm bore a distinct stain from years of this habit – and cleared his throat roughly. “Pardon my impudence again, young liege. But my advice is to exchange whatever pleasantries are needed from a safe vantage.” He jerked his head upwards, indicating the rampart walls high above him.

Bharat resisted the impulse to smile. There was little to smile about this day. “Why? Do you fear for my life? Don’t worry. I doubt they would start a siege by cutting down a Suryavansha Ikshwaku without cause. An unarmed one at that.” He paused. “I intend to go out bare-handed and with only peace in my heart. Whatever their grievance, I doubt they would violate the kshatriya code.”

Still the man remained standing in Bharat’s path. Shatrugan made a sound of impatience but Bharat gave him another gentle squeeze and his brother subsided. The young gatekeeper beside Somasra glanced impassively at his senior, and Bharat was intrigued to see a flash of some emotion there as well. Clearly, the two mismatched gatewatchers had been together for a long time, and the younger had his share of frustrations dealing with the older man.
But he also respects him tremendously.
As if feeling Bharat’s attention focussed on him, the younger man glanced at him and again there was something in his expression that suggested that Bharat pay heed to what the senior man was saying, as well as something else; a sense of apology for the older man’s brusqueness perhaps?

“Yuvraj Bharat, you will pardon me,” the grizzled old veteran said in a voice hoarsened by years of chewing tobacco and yelling on the job. “I am only performing my duty. Would it be amiss of me to repeat my request that you speak to those outside from the ramparts rather than venturing out to meet them personally?”

Bharat frowned. Now he was genuinely puzzled. This went beyond mere concern for his personal safety. What was the old man trying to say? And why was the younger man looking at him with that peculiar expression, as if he understood the old man’s reasons for saying what he did but still felt embarrassed about it.

Shatrugan put it into words in his cut-and-dried manner: “He’s afraid you’ll slip the enemy in through our defences, Bharat.”

It took Bharat a moment to fully comprehend the import of that statement, then it hit him with a flash of heat in the back of his brain. “Are you daring to suggest I would use my position to let my uncle pass through?”

Gatekeeper Somasra spread his broad hands – they looked like they had been broken and incorrectly set a long time ago – in a placating gesture. “I’m following gatewatch protocol, my lord. Under threat of siege or invasion from a large armed and hostile force, nobody is to be allowed out or in. No exceptions. Total lockdown.”

“I know the rules for lockdown—” Bharat began, then stopped.

He looked at Shatrugan. For once, his brother was not upset or angry. He didn’t look like he wanted to smash the gatekeeper in the face. Bharat glanced at the younger gatewatch. The young man still looked somewhat sheepish – and no wonder – but still as resolute and standing shoulder to shoulder with his senior. He looked at the old man Somasra himself then, and as his first flush of anger passed, he saw something there that made him terribly, deeply proud to be an Ayodhyan. The man knew that questioning the actions and orders of a royal prince was grounds for immediate execution, should Bharat but give the word. The circumstances would be considered irrelevant. Kingship and military chain of command superseded everything else. Yet he had pressed his point. Why? Because it was the right thing to do. The man was right. Just because that was Bharat’s own maternal uncle out there, that did not justify his violating his kingdom’s laws. A lockdown was implemented for good reason. Otherwise, every royal family member could find some reason or other to sally forth and back, and the cherished gate security for which Ayodhya was world-renowned might as well be called a revolving gate-bar for children to swing on round and round.

He swallowed, biting back the retort that had been about to rise to his lips, and raised his hand instead. He offered it to the elder gatekeeper. Somasra gazed at it for a fraction and Bharat had the pleasure of seeing surprise flash in the old man’s jaded eyes. Then he took the hand and accepted Bharat’s tight, hard clasp of thanks.

“You speak truly, oldun,” Bharat said quietly. “If the sons of Dasaratha cannot uphold their own father’s rules, then why should the sons of Ayodhya? Yatha Raja, tatha praja.”
As does the king, so shall the people.

Somasra nodded slowly. Bharat sensed Shatrugan grin beside him and saw the younger gatekeeper relax visibly. The man smiled slowly, almost shyly, the smile of a man ill-used to smiling, revealing cracked and broken teeth yellowed by tobacco.

“The sons of Dasaratha
are
Ayodhya,” Somasra said, “If you still insist on going through, I cannot stop ye, yuvraj.”

“I shall go. I must,” Bharat replied. “But I thank ye kindly for your advice. Sound advice.”

The old gatekeeper nodded, eyes still glinting. The younger man grimaced – it was his way of smiling without appearing insubordinate – then glanced up at the older man with a look of mingled pride and frustration.
If he’s not his son by blood, he’s his son at heart for sure.

“Come then,” said the oldun. “And let us pray those outside have half as much wisdom as ye, yuvraj Bharat.”

He turned and unlocked the hefty double doors of the sally port.

Hanuman walked towards Rama, reducing in size as he approached. From a towering 300 yard-high giant, he shrank in seconds to his normal height. Somehow while doing so, he deftly moved Valmiki from his right paw to his arms, carrying the charred body of the maharishi as tenderly as a child. He looked at Rama anxiously.

“I do not feel his breath rise and fall. Nor his heartbeat. I fear for his life.”

Rama seemed preoccupied. His attention was directed at the far end of the avenue, to the second gate. Sita looked and saw a flurry of movement there, then the unmistakable clanging of the gate being hoved to and the heavy bolts dropped with a thundering crash that carried all the way to where they stood. The city lay preternaturally silent and still around them as if it were holding its breath in anticipation of whatever came next.

Rama turned and scanned the faces nearest to him. Sita knew he was seeking out Lakshman. He had a certain way of looking when he sought out Lakshman; Lakshman too had a sixth sense that always seemed to tell him that Rama was seeking him out. She glanced around. Lakshman was nowhere in sight. When she turned back, Rama’s forehead was creased with a frown.

“Where is he?” he asked quietly in a tone in which the sense of irritation was so subtle only she could have detected it – she, and of course, Lakshman. The three of them were as familiar with each other’s tiniest intonations and inflections as it was humanly possible to be.

“I saw him last outside the gate, talking to one of the two alarm-riders.” They too were nowhere to be seen now. “I suppose he must have gone with them somewhere. The same place Bharat and Shatrugan went as well.”

Rama continued to gaze over her shoulder, absorbed in some elaborate thought process. Behind him, Hanuman waited with infinite patience, carrying the smouldering body in his arms. Rama seemed almost unconcerned about the vanar’s last words, but she knew that he had not only heard them, he was processing that as well as a dozen other matters simultaneously, and that when he acted and spoke next, it would be in a manner that dealt with that as well as all the other decisions at hand in the most efficient way possible. That was what he did: processed the available information and arrived at a decision. Always the right decision, at least when it came to martial matters.

That moment arrived. Rama turned back to Hanuman and said, “Take him to the sickhouse. Have the royal vaids see if there’s anything that can be done. If not, make him as comfortable as possible until the end.”

Rama gestured to the nearest courtiers, standing some distance away from the main action, looking on nervously, as Hanuman nodded and began walking towards the palace – the men looked relieved at being given some task to handle, and busied themselves clearing a way for Hanuman to pass as one ran ahead calling out aloud for the royal vaid to be summoned at once. Sita had seen the vaid somewhere in the rear ranks not long before, standing by in the event of any combat injuries that might need to be attended to – that was standard practice when any of the royal family were in the way of direct harm. She saw him raise his hand and gesture to Hanuman to follow him, leading the way. She released a small sigh of relief.

Rama was watching her. “You care about what happens to him?”

“He saved the city from something terrible. I care, yes. Don’t you?”

He shrugged, his face that familiar battlefield mask that was impossible to penetrate. “I care about the city. I am not certain yet of his motives, or intentions.” He glanced away before adding, “Or anyone else’s.”

Sita blinked. What did he mean by that? She could understand him doubting Valmiki’s motives and intentions – well, not really, but she could see how there was some grounds for being cautiously suspicious for the time being – but who
else
was Rama referring to?

But he had already strode away from her, to the mangled gate that was already being pulled down under Saprem Senapati Dheeraj Kumar’s barked instructions by several quads of PFs, with a grinding and wailing of metal that made Sita cringe and want to cover her ears. She felt the churning in her belly again and her nerves screamed in protest. She began to go after Rama but slowed as several familiar robed figures with grim faces accosted her.

“Mahamantris Jabali, Ashok…” her memory failed her and she mumbled a hasty “Noblemen of the Suryavansha court, you should not be out here.”

Jabali spoke first, his birdlike features seeming even longer and sharper than usual under the obvious strain of his grim mood. “Maharani Sita, there are steps to be taken, a protocol to be followed. Under the circumstances…”

She listened to him drone on for a moment about the proper procedure for a siege or invasion of the city-state as laid down by Dasaratha and the First War Council of the Seven Arya Nations following the end of the Last Asura War and how the immediate implementation of such measures were vital to demonstrating Ayodhya’s legal integrity to other neighbouring kingdoms. Finally, when the words began to blur together like white noise she murmured a polite “I shall inform the king, thank you for your counsel,” and hastily made her escape.

The mangled gate was being placed on a flatcart hitched to a sow elephant with a weaning infant that never left her side. She had seen both moving heavy things around the palace grounds before and patted the calf on its rump as she passed. It gave a tiny squeak of greeting and she smiled, thinking of how wonderful it was to see little children and young animals playing together.