Scion of Ikshvaku (19 page)

‘Of course, I remember that,
Maa!
But I will not hurt Ram
Dada’s
credibility.’

‘I know a way…’

Bharat looked at Kaikeyi, puzzled.

‘You should leave Ayodhya on a diplomatic visit. I will publicise your absence. Double back to Ayodhya incognito; get some of your trusted men to break into prison and escape with Dhenuka. You know what you have to do with him. Resume your foreign visit after the deed is done. Nobody will be any the wiser. Practically the whole city will come under suspicion for the killing, for there is no one in Ayodhya who doesn’t want Dhenuka dead. It will be impossible for Ram to discover who did it. Ram will escape the stigma of being seen as shielding his brother, for no one will connect you to it. It will just be seen as the one time that Ram was unable to catch the so-called killer. Most importantly, justice will be served.’

‘You have really thought this through,’ said Bharat. ‘And, how do I leave the city without a diplomatic invitation? If I ask for royal permission to leave without one, it will raise suspicion.’

‘There is already an invitation for you from Kekaya for a diplomatic visit.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Kaikeyi. ‘It did not come to anyone’s notice in the chaos and confusion following Roshni’s death.’ What she did not reveal to Bharat was that she had used some of her newly-acquired wealth to get a back-dated invitation from Kekaya inserted into the Ayodhya diplomatic files. ‘Accept the invitation. And then get justice for your sister’s soul.’

Bharat sat still, cold as ice, as he contemplated what his mother had just said.

‘Bharat?’

He looked at his mother, as if startled by her presence.

‘Will you or won’t you?’

Bharat murmured, almost to himself, ‘Sometimes you have to break the law to do justice.’

Kaikeyi pulled out a piece of bloodied white cloth from the folds of her
angvastram
; it was from the one that had been used to cover Roshni’s brutalised body. ‘Help her get justice.’

Bharat took the cloth gently from his mother, gazed at it and then at his
rakhi
. He closed his eyes as a tear slid down his cheek.

Kaikeyi came up to her son and held him tight. ‘Shakti
Maa
has her eyes on you, my son. You cannot allow the one who has committed such a heinous crime on a woman to go unpunished. Remember that.’

Shakti Maa
, the
Mother Goddess
, was a deity that all Indians looked upon with love. And fear.

Blood shall always be answered with blood.

Dhenuka was awoken by the sound of a door creaking open in his solitary cell at the royal prison.

There was no light streaming in, even from the high window on this dark, moonless night. He sensed danger. He turned his body towards the door, pretending to be asleep as he clenched his fists tight, ready for attack. He opened his eyes slightly, but it was impossible to see anything in the dark.

He heard a soft whistle above his head. Dhenuka sprang up as he hit out hard. There was nobody there. But the sound
had
come from above. A confused Dhenuka’s eyes darted in all directions, desperately trying to see what was going on. The blow came unexpectedly.

He felt a sharp blow on the back of his head and he was thrown to the front. A hand yanked him by the hair and shoved a wet cloth against his nose. Dhenuka instantly recognised the odour of the sweet-smelling liquid. He himself had used it on his victims on many an occasion. He knew he couldn’t fight it. He fell unconscious in a matter of seconds.

Dhenuka awoke to the gentle rolling of wheels on a dirt road. He seemed unhurt, except for the blow to his head, which made it throb unbearably. His kidnappers hadn’t injured him. He wondered who they were. Could they be his father’s men, helping him escape? Where was he? Now, bumps on the road were making the wheels bounce, and the steady sound of crickets seemed to indicate that they were in a jungle, already outside the city. He tried to raise his head to get a better sense of his whereabouts, but the wet cloth made an appearance again. He fell unconscious.

A splash of water woke Dhenuka up with a start. He shook his head, cursing loudly.

A surprisingly gentle voice was heard. ‘Come, now.’

An astonished but wary Dhenuka tried to sit upright. He realised that he was in a covered bullock cart, the kind used to transport hay. He brushed some that was still lying around off his body. He was assisted as he stepped down. It was still pitch dark but some torches had been lit, which allowed him to look around to find his bearings. He still felt groggy and unsteady on his feet; perhaps the after-effects of the sedative that had been administered. He reached out and grabbed the cart to steady himself.

‘Drink this,’ said a man who silently materialised beside him, holding a cup.

Dhenuka took the cup from his hand but hesitated as he examined the contents warily.

‘If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done so already,’ said the man. ‘This will clear your head. You will need your wits about you for what is to follow.’

Dhenuka drank the contents without a protest. The effect was almost instantaneous. His head cleared and his mind became alert. As his senses stabilised, Dhenuka heard the sound of flowing water.

Perhaps I’m near the river. The moment the sun rises, I will swim across to safety. But where is Father? Only he could have bribed the officials to engineer my escape.

‘Thank you,’ said Dhenuka, as he returned the cup to the man. ‘But where is my father?’

The man silently took the cup and melted into the darkness. Dhenuka was left alone. ‘Hey! Where are you going?’

A well-built figure emerged from where the man had disappeared. His fair skin shone in the light of the fire torches, as did his bright green
dhoti
and
angvastram
. He wore a small head band that held his long hair in place; it had an intricately-built, golden peacock feather attached to it. His eyes, normally mischievous, were like shards of ice.

‘Prince Bharat!’ exclaimed Dhenuka, as he quickly went down on one knee.

Bharat walked up to Dhenuka without replying.

Dhenuka had heard of Bharat’s popularity with the women of Kosala. ‘I knew you would understand me. I didn’t expect any better from your strait-laced elder brother.’

Bharat stood still, breathing evenly.

‘I knew you would understand that women have been created for our enjoyment, My Lord. Women are meant to be used by men!’ Dhenuka laughed softly, bowed his head, and reached out to hold Bharat’s
angvastram
in a gesture of humble gratitude.

Bharat moved suddenly, flung Dhenuka’s hand aside, and grabbed his throat, a menacing voice emerging through his gritted teeth. ‘Women are not meant to be used. They are meant to be loved.’

Dhenuka’s expression changed to one of unadulterated terror. Like a trapped animal, he stood rooted to the spot as twenty powerfully-built men emerged, seemingly from nowhere. He struggled to break free of Bharat as the prince began to slowly squeeze his throat.

‘My Lord,’ interrupted a man from behind.

Bharat caught his breath and abruptly released Dhenuka. ‘You will not die so quickly.’

Dhenuka coughed desperately as he strained to recover his breath. All of a sudden he straightened, whirled around and tried to make a dash for it. Two men grabbed him roughly and dragged him back to the cart, kicking and screaming.

‘The law!’ screeched Dhenuka. ‘The law! I cannot be touched. I was a juvenile!’

A third man stepped forward and punched Dhenuka in the jaw, breaking a tooth and drawing blood. ‘You are not a juvenile anymore.’

‘But Prince Ram’s laws—’

Dhenuka’s words were cut short as the man boxed him again in the face, this time breaking his nose. ‘Do you see Prince Ram anywhere?’

‘Tie him up,’ said Bharat.

Some men picked up the torches as two others dragged Dhenuka backwards, to a large tree. They spread his arms wide and tied them around the tree trunk with a rope. They spread his legs apart and repeated the process with his feet. One of them turned around. ‘It is done, My Lord.’

Bharat turned to his side. ‘I’m saying this for the last time, Shatrughan. Leave. You don’t have to be here. Stay away from this…’

Shatrughan cut in. ‘I will always be by your side,
Dada
.’

Bharat stared at Shatrughan with expressionless eyes.

Shatrughan continued. ‘This may be against the law, but it is just.’

Bharat nodded and began to walk forward. As he approached Dhenuka, he pulled out a piece of bloodied white cloth from under his waistband, touched it to his head reverentially, and tied it around his right wrist, above the
rakhi
.

Dhenuka was as desperate as a tethered goat surrounded by a pride of lions. He bleated, ‘My Lord, please, let me go. I swear, I will never touch a woman again.’

Bharat slapped him hard across his face. ‘Do you recognise this place?’

Dhenuka looked around and realisation dawned. This was where he and his gang had raped and murdered Roshni.

Bharat held out his hand. One of his soldiers immediately stepped up and handed him a metallic bottle. Bharat opened the lid and held it close to Dhenuka’s nose. ‘You will soon know what pain really means.’

Dhenuka burst into tears as he recognised the acidic smell. ‘My Lord, I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… Forgive me… Let me go… Please…’

‘Remember Roshni
Didi’s
cries, you filthy dog,’ growled Shatrughan.

Dhenuka pleaded desperately, ‘Lady Roshni was a good woman, My Lord… I was a monster… I’m sorry… But she wouldn’t want you to do this…’

Bharat returned the bottle to the soldier while another soldier handed him a large twisted drill. Bharat placed the sharp end of the drill on Dhenuka’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you are right. She was so good that she would have forgiven even a monster like you. But I am not as good as she was.’

Dhenuka began wailing in a loud, high-pitched voice as a soldier stepped up and handed Bharat a hammer.

‘Scream all you want, you demented bastard,’ said the soldier. ‘Nobody will hear you.’

‘
Nooooo!
Please…
’

Bharat raised his arm and held the hammer high. He positioned the twisted drill on Dhenuka’s shoulder. He just wanted a hole large enough to pour some acid into. A quick death would end the suffering and pain too soon.

‘Blood shall always be answered with blood…’ whispered Bharat.

The hammer came down, the drill penetrated perfectly. Desperate screams rang out loud and clear, above the noise of the raging Sarayu.

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Chapter 15
FlyLeaf.ORG

As the first rays of the sun hesitantly nudged at the darkness, Kaikeyi set off for a rendezvous with Bharat and Shatrughan across the Sarayu River, beyond the northernmost tip of Ayodhya; it was at least a two-hour ride from the southern side, where Dhenuka’s corpse lay.

The brothers had assiduously washed off the blood and other signs of the events of the night before. Their blood-stained clothes had been burnt after they donned fresh garments. Kaikeyi was accompanied by Bharat’s bodyguards.

She stepped down from her chariot and embraced the two. ‘You have served justice, my boys.’

Bharat and Shatrughan did not say anything, their faces a mask that hid the storm still raging within; anger still coursing through them. Sometimes wrath is required to deliver justice. But the strange thing about anger is that it is like fire; the more you feed it, the more it grows. It takes a lot of wisdom to know when to let anger go. The princes, still young, had not yet mastered this.

‘And now, you must leave,’ said Kaikeyi.

Bharat held out the piece from the blood-stained cloth that had covered Roshni’s body.

‘I will return this to Manthara personally,’ said Kaikeyi, as she took the cloth from Bharat.

Bharat bent down to touch his mother’s feet. ‘Bye,
Maa
.’ Shatrughan followed suit wordlessly.

Dhenuka’s body was found by a group of villagers walking by, as they heard the cawing of a murder of crows, fighting over his entrails.

The villagers cut the ropes that still held the body and laid it on the ground. Numerous holes had been viciously hammered into him while he was still alive, judging by the clot formation around the wounds. The burn marks around the holes indicated that something acidic had been poured into each of these wounds.

Death had become inevitable once a sword was rammed into Dhenuka’s abdomen, right through to the tree trunk. He must have slowly bled to death; he was probably still alive when the crows had swooped down for a feast.

One of the villagers recognised Dhenuka. ‘Why don’t we just leave?’ he asked.

‘No, we’ll wait,’ said the leader of the group, wiping a tear from his eye as he asked one of his men to walk to Ayodhya and convey the news. He too had known Roshni’s kindness. His anger had known no bounds when he had discovered that Dhenuka would be let off on a legal technicality. He wished that he’d been the one who killed this monster. He turned to the Sarayu and thanked the River Goddess, for justice had been served.

He looked down and spat on the corpse.

Manthara rode out of the North Gate on a horse-drawn carriage, accompanied by Druhyu, her man Friday, and some bodyguards. They crossed the Grand Canal, moving steadily till they reached the cremation ground by the river in half an hour. At the far end of the ghats was the temple of the mythical first mortal, Lord Yama. Interestingly, Lord Yama was revered as both the God of Death as well as the God of Dharma. The ancients believed that
dharma
and death were interlinked. In a sense, a tally sheet was drawn at the end of one’s mortal life; if there was an imbalance, the soul would have to return to physical form in another mortal body; if the accounts were in balance and karma was in alignment with
dharma
, then the soul would attain ultimate salvation: release from the cycle of rebirth, and reunification with the universal soul, the
Parmatma
, the
Ekam
, the
Brahman
.

Seven pandits conducted the rites in the temple of Lord Yama as Manthara held the urn, within which lay the ashes of her most beauteous creation. In a second urn was the bloodied white cloth that Kaikeyi had handed to her in the morning.

Druhyu sat by the river, quietly contemplating the tumultuous changes that had occurred within a brief span of time. His mistress had changed forever. He had never seen her do the things she had done in the past few days; actions that could directly harm her business and even her personal well-being. She had staked her life’s work at the altar of vengeance. Druhyu suspected that his true lord would be incensed by the amount of money that had been thrown away of late. A large portion of it was not Manthara’s to do with as she pleased. He was afraid for his own well-being. A movement at the temple door distracted him.

As Manthara walked towards the ghats, her limp seemed more pronounced, her hunched back more bent. Her guards walked silently behind her, followed by the chanting
pandits
. She slowly descended to the river, one step at a time. She sat on the final step, the water from the river edge gently lapping around her feet. She waved the guards away. The
pandits
stood a step above, diligently reciting Sanskrit mantras to help the soul on its journey into the next world, beyond the mythical river Vaitarni. They concluded their prayers by repeating a hymn from the
Isha Vasya Upanishad,
one that had also been recited during the cremation ceremony.

Vayur anilam amritam; Athedam bhasmantam shariram

Let this temporary body be burned to ashes. But the breath of life belongs elsewhere. May it find its way back to the Immortal Breath.

Druhyu observed the proceedings from a distance, his attention focused on the pathetic shadow of the calculating, sharp woman that Manthara had once been. A single thought kept running in his mind, as if on a loop.

The old woman has lost it. She is no longer useful to the true lord. I need to take care of myself now.

Manthara held the urn close to her bosom. Inhaling deeply, she finally mustered the strength to do what had to be done. She opened the lid and turned the urn upside down, allowing her daughter’s ashes to drift away in the river waters. She held the bloodied white cloth close to her face and whispered, ‘Don’t come back to this ugly world, my child; it has not been created for one as pure as you.’

Manthara stared at her daughter’s remains moving steadily away from her. She looked up at the sky, her chest bursting with anger.

Ram…

Manthara squeezed her eyes shut, her breath emerging in erratic rasps.

You protected that monster… You protected Dhenuka… I will remember…

‘Who’s responsible for this?’ growled Ram, his body taut with tension. He was surrounded by police officials.

Ram had rushed to the scene of the crime as soon as he received intimation of the grisly murder of Dhenuka. The officers were silent, taken aback by the fury of a man who was defined by his composure.

‘This is a travesty of the law, a perversion of justice,’ said Ram. ‘Who did this?’

‘I … I don’t know, My Lord,’ said one of the officers nervously.

Ram leaned towards the frightened man, stepping closer. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’

A loud shout was heard from behind. ‘
Dada!
’

Ram looked up to see Lakshman galloping furiously towards them.

‘
Dada
,’ said Lakshman, as he pulled up close. ‘You need to come with me right away.’

‘Not now, Lakshman,’ said Ram, waving his hand in dismissal. ‘I’m busy.’

‘
Dada
,’ said Lakshman, ‘Guru Vashishta has asked for you.’

Ram looked at Lakshman with irritation. ‘I will be back soon. Please tell Guru
ji
that I have to—’

Lakshman interrupted his elder brother. ‘
Dada
, Maharishi Vishwamitra is here! He is asking for you;
specifically
for you.’

Ram stared at Lakshman, stunned.

Vishwamitra was the chief of the Malayaputras, the mysterious tribe left behind by the previous Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram. They represented the sixth Vishnu, tasked with carrying forward his mission on earth. The legendary powers of the Malayaputras instilled a sense of awe among the people of the Sapt Sindhu. This effect was further enhanced by Vishwamitra’s fearsome reputation. Born as Kaushik, a Kshatriya, he was the son of the great King Gaadhi. Despite being a brave warrior in his youth, his nature drove him towards becoming a
rishi
. Against all odds, he succeeded. Thereafter, he reached the pinnacle of Brahmin ascension when he became the chief of the Malayaputras. After taking over as the chief, he had changed his name to Vishwamitra. The Malayaputras were tasked with assisting the next Mahadev, when he appeared. They believed their primary reason for existing, however, was to give rise to the next Vishnu when the time came.

Ram looked down at Dhenuka’s body and then at his brother, torn between the two calls of duty. Lakshman dismounted and caught him by his elbow.

‘
Dada
, you can come back to this,’ insisted Lakshman, ‘but Maharishi Vishwamitra should not be kept waiting. We have all heard about his legendary temper.’

Ram relented. ‘My horse,’ he ordered.

One of the officers quickly fetched his horse. Ram mounted and swiftly tapped the animal into action; Lakshman followed him. As the horses galloped towards the city, Ram recalled the odd conversation he had had with Vashishta a few days earlier.

Someone is on his way here… I cannot stop it…

‘What can Maharishi Vishwamitra possibly want from me?’ whispered Ram to himself.

…you serve a purpose for him too…

Ram brought his attention back to the present and made a clicking noise, urging the horse to move quicker.