PRINCE IN EXILE Read online

  All of Mithila feasted that night. Rivers of wine and soma flowed, thousands of heads of cattle, sheep and fowl were slaughtered and roasted, entire groves of fruit and vegetables were consumed. The milky, ghee-rich odour of mithai being prepared filled the entire district around the royal kitchens.

  In the central hall of the palace, on a pandal–a platform specially erected for the occasion–Guru Vashishta, Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, Maharishi Satyananda, and a small army of purohits, pundits and other venerated Brahmins conducted the elaborate rituals to propitiate the devas for the fruitful union of the princely pair. It had been decided by both families that the three brothers of Rama and Sita’s sister and two cousins were to be wed as well. But it was Rama and Sita who first took the seven pheras around the sacred yagna fire, as the priests chanted the appropriate hymns.

  //Iyam Sita mama suta sahadharmachari thava// //Pratichha chainam bhadram te panim grihnishwa panina// //Pativrata mahabhaga chayevanugata sada// //Ithyuktwa prakshipadraja mantraputam jalam tada.//

  On completion of the ritual, Maharaja Janak, tears welling in his eyes, embraced the pink-saffa-turbaned, flower-veiled Rama and said to him, ‘Ramabhadra, pray accept my daughter Sita Janaki as your saha-dharmini, your partner in dharma. May you both dwell in the shadow of the grace of the devas for ever, as closely bonded as a mortal being to its own shadow.’

  With these words, Janak placed Sita’s hands over Rama’s and chanted suitable mantras while pouring ganga-jal over his daughter’s hands. The holy water dripped through the clasped hands and into a golden bowl, formally solemnising the union. Upon this, the entire congregation chanted aloud in one enormous harmony: ‘Sadhu! Sadhu!’ The sound carried across the city, turning the anxiously expectant faces of the waiting Mithilans into masks of pleasure. With a sounding of conch trumpets, the celebrations began, notwithstanding the fact that only one of the four marriages was formally over. Mithilans were known for starting early and finishing late.

  After the marriage of Rama and Sita was solemnised, Janak gave his daughter Urmila in marriage to Lakshman. Then, on behalf of his late brother Kushadhwaja, he gave his nieces Mandavi and Shrutakirti to Bharat and Shatrugan respectively.

  The two maharajas embraced to show their joy at this joining of their dynasties; Janak expressed his pleasure at seeing Dasaratha after such a long time, and wondered if he would have to father more daughters to entice his old friend into visiting again. Dasaratha pleaded his ill health and the recent asura threat as excuses for his not staying the customary seven days.

  Maharaja Janak had much to think about in the wake of the recent crisis, so narrowly averted by the timely arrival of Rajkumar Rama and Brahmarishi Vishwamitra. It sobered him to think that had they not arrived when they had, all that he now beheld from the height of the Sage’s Brow would lie in blood-spattered ruins. Still, he resisted the urging of his council of ministers and senapatis to reform the Videhan army and build up defences. In the end, he reasoned with unshakeable logic, the city had been saved not by military might, but by spiritual shakti. That was the most powerful vindication of peace he could ask for, and so Mithila resisted all attempts to militarise and remained as spiritually pious and morally liberated as ever.

  FIVE

  Dawn. The day after the wedding. They stood by the north gate, lit by the soft early light. A gentle breeze ruffled their hair and clothes. Sita’s wedding bangles clinked melodiously, her silk garments shirring in musical counterpoint to the rustling of Rama’s silk loincloth. Lakshman’s saffron-coloured dhoti flapped lazily. Both sages were clad in saffron as well, although even now Vishwamitra was tying the mouth of a large grey shawl at the nape of his neck, sobering the effect of the saffron dhoti he had worn at the wedding. Enveloped now in grey, he stood with his cloak flapping, flowing beard and tied hair rippling in the wind.

  Rama and Sita paused, exchanging an unspoken thought, then bent as one and touched the feet of Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, asking the seer-mage for the ritual blessing. ‘Ashirwaad, guru-dev.’

  The brahmarishi spoke a Sanskrit sloka conferring long life and blessed union upon the just-wed pair.

  As Rama rose, Vishwamitra reached out and caught hold of the young man’s hands in his own. Rama could feel the gnarled roughness of Vishwamitra’s palm, worn coarse from millennia wielding first swords and lances and now staffs and rods.

  ‘Rama,’ the sage said in a voice that for once revealed his inner emotions. ‘I have not words to tell you how deeply I desire to be at your side tomorrow. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to see you crowned Prince of Ayodhya. Nay, I err in saying that, for one other thing would give me that satisfaction–to tarry in Ayodhya even after your ceremonial ascendance, revelling in the spiritual hospitality of that great capital of the Kosala nation, until the day dawns of your ascension to the throne and coronation as Maharaja of Ayodhya, liege of the mightiest Arya nation on this mortal realm. Nothing else would give me greater pleasure than to see that glorious day dawn. Yet it is not to be. And so, my young prince, you must go on as you have up to now, and I must go my own way. Remember only this: follow your dharma. Whatever else transpires, be true unto dharma and all will be well in the end.’

  Rama joined his palms together in a namaskar that attempted feebly to communicate all the gratitude, respect and love he felt for the brahmarishi. ‘Pranaam, guru-dev,’ he said. He would have said more but there seemed no words to express what he felt. He looked up at the brahmarishi and in those eagle-like grey eyes he saw that everything he felt and could not say was understood.

  Vishwamitra’s face settled into a determined aspect and he turned to face north. There was no raj-marg here; the main king’s highway led out of the west gate, the main entrance of the city. This was merely a cart-track, winding up a wooded slope to the base of a hill, the first of many that grew eventually until they became the foothills of the great Himalayas. Used more by holy men than merchants or soldiers, it was little trodden, and overgrown. Even this close to the city, the woods encroached upon it from either side, elms, pines and firs leaning restrictively.

  Rama couldn’t help but notice that the curving line of the raj-marg resembled the letter of the Sanskrit alphabet that signified sacred Aum, the syllable of transcendence. He wondered if some Mithilan road architect, centuries earlier, had designed it thus, or if it was simply to accommodate the lie of the land. He would ask Sita about it later. The minutiae of history had always fascinated him, especially the attempts of men through the ages to shape their environs in a manner that reflected their own culture.

  Brahmarishi Vishwamitra looked back one last time at the quartet gathered on the northern knoll. His eyes met Rama’s gaze and for an instant Rama clearly felt the searchlight of the seer’s soul pass across his mind, like the spill of a blazing mashaal in the dark of night; then, as the seer turned his penetrating grey eyes away, the sensation faded and was replaced by a new feeling, a sense of great foreboding.

  The seer-mage took up his staff and strode up the winding path.

  As Rama watched the tall, broad-backed form move away with powerful rapid steps, a small dust trail rising languorously in the morning air in his wake, motes of dust swirling through the beams of sunlight that fell through gaps in the woods, the sense of foreboding increased in intensity.

  The feeling refused to leave him, lingering long after the sage had strode on out of sight and even the curling dust trail of his passing had faded into oblivion.

  KAAND 1

  ONE

  The mountain began to move.

  That was the only way that Sita could describe it to herself. The entire mass of rock, several hundred yards, shuddered briefly, held still a moment, then began to shiver like a mare in heat. A sound arose from the depths of the rocky mass, a sound like nothing else, the gnashing moan of thousands of tons of rock and earth shifting against itself, grinding and scraping right down to the bedrock. The reverberations caused the ground beneath their feet to shudder. The h
orses snickered nervously, tossing their heads and manes and rolling their eyes wildly. Ahead and behind, the elephants trumpeted their displeasure at this unnatural motion of the earth. And from all around, the screels and cries and screeching calls of birds and beasts filled the air.

  Sita clutched hold of the nearest thing at hand; it happened to be Rama’s elbow. In response, he put both his arms around her, pinning her between them as he took hold of the rail of the palanquin. The elephant they were on lurched alarmingly, then roared in dismay as pebbles, gravel and other rock debris began to slide down the sides of the ravine, spattering the royals and their protectors indiscriminately. Sita glanced back and saw Nakhudi, ensconced in the rearmost seat of their palanquin, glaring up with wide angry eyes, as if this phenomenon were somehow the fault of someone up there, and if she could just spy the one responsible, she would toss a spear through his breast and put a stop to it.

  The mountain increased its shuddering. Sita looked around, seeing horses rearing up in terror, elephants lurching and striking against the sides of the pass. The orderly procession had suddenly turned into a chaotic mêlée.

  ‘Rama,’ she said, clutching his arm tighter. ‘What should we do? What’s happening?’

  Rama shook his head. The shaking of the earth made speech difficult for him, breaking up his words into staccato phrases and fragments. ‘I don’t know. Best stay still. Curl up. Too dangerous to get down. Elephants. Trample us.’

  The shaking and shuddering got worse, until Sita could hear her teeth chattering in her mouth. She clenched her jaws together, keeping her head down, hands above the back of her head, making herself as small a target as possible, as she had been taught to do in earthquakes. Beside her, she felt Rama do the same. His body was warm and hard against her own, and she felt the better for his presence and closeness. Beside him, Lakshman was curled up still as well. Sita tried to see the elephant ahead, to check if the maharaja and the queens were all right, but the air was filled with blinding dust from the landslides and it was impossible to see clearly.

  The side of the mountain shattered beside her. Like a wall made of papier-mâché, it was ripped apart by two giant diagonal slashes. Something, or someone, pushed its way through the meeting point of these slashes, and burst through. Chunks of basalt rock and sheets of slate rained down the side of the ravine, striking at least one unfortunate soldier below. His cry filled the air before being cut off by the brutal sound of rock crunching human flesh and bone.

  Rama stared up at the shining figure that had burst out of the mountain. It was a personage of less than average height, no more than five feet, almost a dwarf, not quite a man. Yet what he lacked in stature he made up for in width. The figure standing on the crumbled debris of the ravine wall was barrel-chested and broad enough to encompass two men if he but stretched his arms. Rama squinted up against the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes with his hands, then realised that the intense brightness was caused by the man himself, not the sun above.

  He was glowing with the blue-tinged effulgence of Brahman shakti. The brilliance sharpened to blinding brightness at his head, vignetting to a radiant glow around his simple but pristine white dhoti. In place of an angvastra, he wore only the thick thread that marked the Brahmin caste. His wide, powerfully muscled chest was matted with a profuse growth of hair, also white. His forehead was anointed with the traditional triple row of horizontal saffron smears, and a single vertical white smudge dotted with raw rice grains. This, along with his matted white hair piled atop his head, and the chest thread, left no doubt about his status as a Brahmin.

  But in his right hand he held an implement that no Brahmin would ever touch, let alone wield, even on pain of death.

  The axe in the Brahmin’s right hand was nearly as tall as the man himself. Even at this distance, Rama could see with the assistance of his own awoken powers that its wooden handle was scored with countless cuts, and the Sanskrit legend carved into its heft was long since obscured by use. But the blade at the head of the axe gleamed as dangerously as the day it had been forged. An enormous curved two-edged blade, half a yard in length, almost as much in breadth, and at least two inches thick in the middle, tapering to a lethal sharpness at either end. This blade caught the light and sent back rainbow-hued explosions of blinding reflection with every movement. Rama knew from experience that an axe of that size must weigh nothing less than half a hundred kilos. Yet the squat Brahmin gripped it with an easy familiarity as if the axe was a part of himself.

  Lakshman exhaled beside him. ‘Parsurama.’

  Rama caught the cold gleam of sunlight on metal and caught Lakshman’s hand, stopping him from drawing the iron-bladed arrow he was about to pull surreptitiously from his quiver. He shook his head slowly. Lakshman stayed still.

  Just then the axe-wielding Brahmin spoke.

  ‘Kshatriyas!’

  The voice was as deep and sonorous as an earthquake. It rolled across the ravine and down the mountainside like a small avalanche, carrying to the far ends of the Ayodhyan procession, almost a mile below in the woods at the foothill of the mountain. Rama glanced back and saw horses rearing far below, disconcerted by the power of the voice. It was a voice befitting a man who could axe his way through solid rock.

  ‘Kshatriyas, look upon me and tremble.’

  The cleaver of the mountain hefted his mighty axe, turning it this way then that to show the Ayodhyans. ‘I am Parsurama of the axe.’

  At the sound of his name, every last throat in the Ayodhyan procession sent up a cry of anger and dismay. The echoes clashed with the booming reverberations of the Brahmin’s pronouncement, bringing a fresh spattering of loose stones and earth from the mountainside. Horses reared and whinnied. Elephants lowed unhappily.

  ‘I am he who was trained by mighty Shiva Himself in the arts of warfare. This axe was forged for me by the blacksmith of the devas. And this bow’ - he reached out and opened his left palm. With a flash of lightning, a huge bow appeared in his fist

  -‘was given unto me by the Three-Eyed One Himself. It is sister to the bow which lay in the possession of Maharaja Janak, liege of Mithila. Only yesterday did I hear the sound of that mighty bow being destroyed. That sound reached even within my retreat deep within the heart of Mount Mahendra. Shiva’s bow? Broken? Which mortal warrior would be foolish enough to brave such a dastardly act of destruction? It is that foul act that compels me to appear before you. In the name of Shiva, who bequeathed me that mighty bow, I swear that I shall not rest until I have exacted vengeance upon the foolish Kshatriya who destroyed that great weapon. I know he is amongst you. I smell the resin of the bow in the air even now. Surrender him to me and I will spare the rest of your lives. Refuse, and I shall leave no person alive. Thus speaks Parsurama of the axe.’

  Rama felt Sita start and attempt to turn to look at him, while Lakshman’s hand moved again towards his quiver. He admonished them both with a gesture. Behind them, Nakhudi’s chainmail rattled briefly, as if the rani-rakshak had turned her bulky body to look at Rama. He sensed the minds of every Ayodhyan in the long procession turn towards him. If their eyes did not look at him at once, it was because of caution.

  After a moment, in which neither bird nor beast, wind nor mortal sound was audible, the Brahmin took his axe off his shoulder and swung it at the mountain, as easily as a woodsman chopping a log. A thousand shards of basalt stone exploded, showering down on the Ayodhyan lines below. Rama saw a score of raised lances bent and crushed like reed sticks beneath the falling shards. The men wielding them disappeared in a cloud of dust and debris. As the echoes of the falling rolled away, the Brahmin’s voice boomed out again, louder and fiercer.

  ‘Foolish Kshatriyas! You do not know whom you face. I have killed a million Kshatriyas before and shall kill a million more. Seven times thrice I have cleansed the earth of all Kshatriyas in retribution for a Kshatriya’s murder of my father. It would cause me little effort to do so yet again. For you low-caste warriors understand only the language of bl
ood and iron, naught else. Yet still I stay my hand, for your liege is of the Suryavansha dynasty and my mother Renuka, daughter of Prasanjit, was also of the same lineage. Answer me, I say. Show me the cowardly mortal who dared to lay his filthy Kshatriya hands upon the venerated bow of my Lord Shiva.’

  Rama stepped forward, about to speak, when the deep tones of Guru Vashishta’s voice rang out with preternatural force. Heads turned to see the guru standing atop a boulder to address the Brahmin on the mount. ‘Parsurama of the axe,’ said the sage, for that was the full meaning of the Brahmin’s name. ‘I see you have still not satiated your thirst for Kshatriya blood.’

  At the sight and sound of Vashishta, the Brahmin lowered his axe at once. He bowed his head and performed a namaskaram. ‘Guru Vashishta! Pranaam, guru-dev! It has been a long time since we last met. Forgive me if I have offended thee with my words. They are not intended for you, nor for any Brahmin in this party. My business is only with these Kshatriya fools who offend me by their very presence upon this mortal realm.

  I would rid the world entire of the bane of their existence yet again for the insult they have caused my Lord Shiva.’

  ‘Nay, Parsurama,’ Guru Vashishta said calmly, his words, like those of Parsurama, carrying easily to every Ayodhyan in the procession by the aid of Brahman power. ‘Do not be so quick to lay blame. Your earlier grievance with Kshatriyas was justified. I myself was present upon this earth when Raja Kartavirya, Lord of the Haihaiyas, abused the gracious hospitality of your father’s ashram by stealing a sacred calf, the very same calf I myself had gifted unto Maharishi Jamadgini, for it was the offspring of the blessed Cow-Mother Surabhi Herself. That theft was truly ill-intentioned. Thus when you chased after the raja, you had just cause to cross weapons with him, cutting off his thousand arms and ending his life. You were only redressing the wrong he had done unto you, and reclaiming the calf that he had stolen so feloniously. And later, when you returned from a pilgrimage and found your father slain in his own ashram, murdered by the sons of Raja Kartavirya, you had just cause to swear your oath to cleanse the earth of all Kshatriyas. For it was indeed true that the warrior caste of that age had grown unruly and arrogant in their ways and deserving of punishment. So you took up your mighty axe and you cleansed the earth thrice times seven of all Kshatriyas. Twenty-one times in all you massacred every last warrior on this mortal plane. Only then did you retire to your mountain habitat, deep within the heart of Mount Mahendra.’