PRINCE IN EXILE Read online

  Parsurama bowed again to Vashishta. ‘Great one, your knowledge and wisdom are infinite. You alone understand my pain and motivation. Then stand by me in this matter as well. Point out to me the Kshatriya who broke my lord’s bow that I might cleave his head from his body and rid the earth of his vile presence.’

  This time, Rama needed no further urging. He rose to his feet, unclasping Sita’s hand from his own as he stood, and presented himself to the Brahmin on the mount. He pitched his voice upwards, projecting it as far as he could, to be heard not only by the axe-wielder but also by his own countrymen.

  ‘Brahmin Parsurama,’ Rama said, his youthful voice a strange contrast to the booming baritones of the two Brahmins. ‘I am Dasaratha-putra Rama Chandra, Prince of Ayodhya. I am the one who strung and broke the bow of Lord Shiva in Mithila. I am the one you seek.’

  TWO

  Parsurama’s response was swift and startling. The Brahmin hefted his axe on to his shoulder and leaped off the mountain.

  Before the astonished gaze of the watching Ayodhyans, he fell a thousand yards, landing on both feet on a large stone ledge only a little way from the ravine path. Sita shielded her eyes instinctively as the Brahmin’s feet struck the ledge with superhuman impact. The ledge held, barely, but an enormous rift appeared, racing across it from end to end, and the stone broke into two sections with a sound like a giant walnut cracking. A flurry of dust and small stones flew up into the air, pattering down before the Ayodhyans. The dust cloud parted to reveal the squat form of the Brahmin striding forth.

  Parsurama stopped with his axe raised, within striking distance of Rama.

  The Brahmin looked Rama up and down, scorn and disbelief mingled in his expression.

  ‘You? A mere stripling of a boy? You could not lift an Ayodhyan longbow, let alone the celestial bow of my Lord Shiva!’

  Parsurama turned away from Rama, dismissing him, and faced the Ayodhyans, directing his words towards Guru Vashishta. ‘Guru-dev! Tell your acolytes not to test me further. Ask them to send out the true culprit. My axe has never been so patient before. If not for your presence as mentor of this dynasty, I would have slain the lot of them already. I know you will not lie to me, Vashishta. Tell me, who is the one who broke my bow?’

  Sita tried to see the guru’s response, but spears bristled about her thickly, crowding her view. Before Guru Vashishta could reply, Rama’s voice rang out again sharply.

  ‘I am he you seek, axe-wielder. I alone was responsible for breaking your master’s bow.’

  Parsurama turned to gaze sceptically at Rama again.

  ‘Then surely you were given the gift of Brahman shakti by the great Guru Vashishta.’

  ‘Not mere shakti, Brahmin. The maha-shakti of Bala and Atibala. That great gift was given unto me by none other than Brahmarishi Vishwamitra himself, who was my mentor only recently.’

  A change came over Parsurama’s expression. ‘Vishwamitra infused you with Bala and Atibala?’ He measured Rama anew.

  ‘Perhaps I misjudged your youthful appearance. But even so, I cannot believe that you could have broken my master’s bow. Even if you were given possession of the maha-mantras of ultimate warrior strength, you could hardly have gained enough proficiency in their use in so short a time.’ He glanced scornfully at Rama’s face. ‘It would take ten times your minuscule lifetime to master such maha-shakti, let alone wield it.’

  Rama’s reply was quiet, yet his words carried clearly down the mountainside. Aided by Guru Vashishta’s Brahman power, no doubt. Sita watched, mesmerised, unable to believe that Rama, her Rama, was matching wits with the legendary Parsurama himself. As long as he’s not matching blades.

  ‘By the grace of Guru Vishwamitra,’ Rama said, ‘I was able to enter the Bhayanak-van and confront the mutant hybrid hordes of Tataka. After dispensing with her vile offspring, I challenged and downed Tataka herself. Later, on a mission from my guru, I entered the Pit of Vasuki and released the wife of Sage Gautama from her millennia-long curse. And only three days past, I confronted and bested Ravana, Lord of Lanka, in the sabha hall of Mithila, on which same occasion I strung, shot and then broke the bow of mighty Shiva. Later the same evening I decimated the invading asura hordes of Ravana by uttering the secret maha-mantra of the Creator, Brahma-dev’s own weapon, the Brahm-astra.’

  Parsurama started, taking a step back. ‘The Brahm-astra? It cannot be! You lie! You seek to deceive me with your warrior’s cunning.’

  Rama shrugged. ‘Do you believe that Guru Vashishta would stand by silently and permit me to utter lies of such magnitude?’

  Sita saw Parsurama glance uncertaintly in the direction of Guru Vashishta. The guru’s voice floated down clearly: ‘Heed well the words of young Rama Chandra, axe-wielder. He speaks truth.’

  Parsurama drew a deep breath and released it. Sita felt the breeze ripple around her like the edges of a gale. ‘Your endorsement leaves no doubt, maha-dev. I accept the veracity of his words. Yet I can scarcely believe that a mere Kshatriya could accomplish such feats.’

  It was Rama who replied. ‘Then test me. Give me a feat to accomplish that any mere Kshatriya would find impossible. Prove to yourself that I am unworthy of such achievements - or prove yourself wrong for having underestimated me.’

  A murmer of approval swept through the Ayodhyan ranks. Sita felt a thrill course through her body. Rama, her Rama, challenging the legendary Parsurama himself? Her sister and cousins must surely be fainting right now!

  Parsurama’s face was creased in doubt and suspicion. But after a long moment he came to a decision. Reaching up, he caused the bow he had held earlier to re-materialise. With a flash of lightning, it reappeared in his left hand. Now that the Brahmin was so much closer than before, Sita could see that the bow was identical in every respect to the one that had lain in her father’s palace all her life. In size, appearance, design and carving, it was its exact twin.

  ‘Two indestructible bows,’ Parsurama said quietly, ‘were crafted by Vishwakarma himself, forgesmith of the devas, at Brahma the Creator’s command. One was given to Shiva the Destroyer, the other to Vishnu the Preserver. They were used by the two great ones in single combat against each other, a tournament provoked by Brahma himself to prove once and for all who was the mightier of the two devas. Both Vishnu and Shiva were determined to best each other. The combat raged for many aeons by mortal count. Finally, Vishnu unleashed his secret mantra as a war-cry, which unstrung Shiva’s bow, putting the Lord of Destruction at a momentary disadvantage. At that instant, seeing that Vishnu had the advantage, the watching assemblage of devas, seven brahmarishis, and others all rushed on to the combat field, separating the two devas. For had Vishnu been permitted to press home his advantage, who can say, perhaps he might have been the one to triumph, and he would then have had no choice but to destroy Shiva. Vishnu was relieved at the match being ended thus. For he knew that there could be no victor in such a match. So when victory was assigned to him over Shiva’s protests, Vishnu refused to accept the laurel, saying that the combat had been interrupted without a satisfactory conclusion. Shiva, of course, was greatly angered by the outcome, and in a fit of rage he went to Mithila City and gave away his unstrung bow to Devarata, then king of the Vaideha nation. It remained in the possession of the kings of Vaideha, passing eventually to Maharaja Janaka, the present liege.’

  Parsurama paused and slipped his axe through the loop of the sling tied across his shoulder, freeing his hand to hoist the bow aloft, displaying it for all to see. It caught the light of the late afternoon sun and gleamed like burnished metal, dazzling in its finery. ‘This is Vishnu’s bow, the same one with which he bested Shiva, albeit momentarily. Vishnu did not wish to keep it, knowing in his infinite wisdom that any astra of such potency ought not to be in the possession of one so powerful as himself. So he gave it in sacred trust to Richika of the Bhrigu clan, from whom I myself am descended. Mighty Richika handed it down to my father Jamadagni. Yet even when Kartavirya’s sons came to murder him
in revenge for my having killed their father, Jamadagni did not use Vishnu’s bow to defend himself. For he was a man of peaceful, spiritual pursuits, a true Brahmin.’

  Parsurama’s voice betrayed his emotion now, turning sorrowful.

  ‘Thus he allowed himself to be killed rather than raise a hand in anger. For such is the code of the Brahmins since the beginning of our proud race. Even when we found his butchered body, chopped up as cruelly and heartlessly as the carcass of any forest animal, my sister and my brothers could think only of praying for repentance on behalf of the culprits who had perpetrated that dastardly act. But I,’ he paused, his fierce eyes shining with tears, ‘I, Parsurama, eldest of my father’s sons, could not bear to see my father’s death go unavenged. For he was killed in retaliation for a deed I had committed, and I felt myself answerable to the consquences of my actions. And so I took up the axe which I used to chop wood for our cookfires, and went forth into the world with vengeance in my breast and a vow upon my lips. I vowed that I would rid the earth of every last warrior-caste that lived. And so I did, reaping a terrible harvest throughout Prithvi-lok, this mortal realm. Thrice times seven I slew the Kshatriyas and their sons, sparing only those women who did not raise arms against me and who were not pregnant with male offspring. Those that bore weapons or male embryos, I destroyed as well.’

  Parsurama gained hold of his emotions, lowering the bow slowly. Sita saw his hand tremble with the intensity of his passion. Parsurama held out the bow to Rama.

  ‘If you truly are the one who broke Shiva’s bow, and the one who made the three worlds tremble by unleashing the mighty Brahm-astra, then I challenge you to prove it. Take this great Bow of Vishnu and use it against me if you can. Face me in single combat, I with my wood-axe, and you with Vishnu’s bow, and we shall determine if you are truly deserving of your claims. To arms, Kshatriya!’

  And Parsurama tossed the Bow of Vishnu to Rama and raised his axe once more, as a terrible roar rose from the throats of every Ayodhyan.

  Dasaratha swam up from a fog of ghoulish hallucinations to find himself confronted with yet another nightmarish scenario. He struggled to raise himself from the cushioned seat on which he lay, unable to credit the evidence of his eyes. Through the ornately carved side panel of the palanquin, he could see the amassed PFs, veterans of the last asura wars, and soldiers of the First Akshohini ranged in a defensive phalanx. The familiar wrestler’s physique of their commander left no doubt that it was Senapati Dheeraj Kumar, which gave some idea of the serious nature of the crisis. The general stood off to one side, sword drawn but lowered. Despite having only just regained consciousness and having his field of vision restricted to this sideways view through the gaps in the carved side panel of an elephant-top palanquin, Dasaratha’s military mind grasped at once that their procession had been attacked.

  But by whom?

  Slowly, painfully, he forced his eyes open once more. The nausea seemed to have passed momentarily. But all he saw was the same puzzling tableau. The only added detail he was able to glean was the red-hooded figure of Rajkumari Sita, his new daughter-in-law, standing in the front line of the phalanx, close behind the senapati, who seemed to be barring her way deliberately. Dasaratha tried to turn his head, risking another attack of nausea, but the ornate pattern of the sandalwood panel carving hid anything further from his view. He would have to raise himself to see above the side of the palanquin.

  His elbow groaned in protest, and with a disproportionate sense of achievement he managed to raise his head a few inches higher. At once he heard a gasp from behind, and the tinkling bangled arms of Kausalya caught hold of him, bearing him up. To his left, acting just as quickly, Sumitra’s delicate hands also added their own strength, and with the help of his two queens, he was able to sit up against the side of the palanquin. One of the maharanis placed a bolster behind his head, so he could rest it and yet look around. He started to ask a question, then found himself able to see over the side panel at last, and all questions became redundant.

  Rama stood on a ledge beside the rock-strewn mountain path, holding a great longbow, the likes of which Dasaratha had not seen except in paintings of legends and myths. The bow was a magnificent creation, its enormous span seemingly constructed for three men rather than one. From the unnaturally gaudy way in which it reflected the afternoon sunlight - sending shooting arrows of pain into Dasaratha’s eyes, forcing him to raise his trembling hand to shield himself - its celestial origins were unmistakable. Dasaratha had seen only two such bows in his life before, both depicted in the great fresco of the Battle of Shiva and Vishnu portrayed on the northside ceiling of the vast dome of Suryavansha Hall, back in the Palace of Ayodhya, painted a hundred years earlier during the reign of his grandfather Raghu. A veteran of the arts of war, Dasaratha had looked up at that magnificent portrayal too many times not to recognise such a weapon when he saw it in reality.

  But he did not have time to admire the bow, or the ease with which Rama hoisted it high, as if he was accustomed to using such celestial astras daily. It was the figure standing directly opposite his son that now caught Dasaratha’s attention and held him enraptured in breathless awe. A figure out of yet another painting in Suryavansha Hall.

  Dasaratha knew at once that the white-haired Brahmin, with his distinctive pug features and stocky appearance, could be none other than legendary Parsurama himself. The axe on the shoulder of the dhoti-clad Brahmin left no further doubt as to his identity. And in that same instant, Dasaratha recalled where they were: halfway up the side of Mount Mahendra, where legend had it the axe-wielder had retired after his last cleansing of the earth. With that, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place and Dasaratha recalled the explosion that had shocked his ailing brain into unconsciousness. The Brahmin had burst out of the mountain itself - and there, high above, was the splintered maw marking the place he’d emerged from.

  Without needing to speak a single word to the two maharanis standing beside him in the palanquin, watching his son as anxiously as he was now, Dasaratha grasped the significance of the entire scene at once.

  Rama was facing Parsurama in single combat.

  Suddenly the tableau on the rocky ledge exploded into action, and Kausalya realised with new horror that Dasaratha was not saying a word to stop it - or perhaps he could not. She began to rise again, to cry out, but controlled herself. It would not do to intervene now. She might distract Rama by calling out. And there was the matter of honour to be considered: after all, the Brahmin had challenged Rama fairly and openly, in front of fifty thousand witnesses. For her to intercede now on his behalf would be dishonourable, humiliating. She had no choice but to brace herself and watch … but there was one thing she could do honourably.

  Kausalya prayed to her patron deity, the mother-goddess Sri in her supreme incarnation, the original creator of all, the One True God to whom even mighty Brahma bowed and paid homage. Let this end now. Let it end without anyone else coming to harm. But most of all, let Rama be safe and well.

  Then she watched as the Brahmin hefted his axe and charged at Rama.

  Rama was prepared for the assault.

  Ever since the Brahmin’s first appearance, he had missed the power of the maha-mantras Bala and Atibala, that fiery shakti that had flowed through his body and brain, igniting every cell, firing it up to that hot-as-ice, cold-as-flame preternatural state that had so quickly become as familiar to him as the tensing of his own muscles, the feel of his own skin.

  But the shakti of Brahman had been stripped from him. Taken away as the price for wielding the Brahm-astra. He had known the consequence of unleashing that great celestial weapon. Yet he had accepted the responsibility and fulfilled his dharma, saving the lives not only of those who resided in Mithila City, in the direct path of the asura invasion, but of all mortals who would eventually, inevitably, have faced the death-wrath of Ravana.

  And now he stood before Parsurama without any force other than his own mortal strength.

  And
what good was mortal strength before the legendary power of the axe-wielder? He who had cleansed the earth of Kshatriyas so many times before?

  How could one solitary warrior stand before such a legendary challenger?

  All these thoughts flashed through Rama’s mind in the fraction of an instant.

  And then the time for thinking was past.

  The Brahmin attacked.

  Parsurama charged at him, his axe swinging at Rama’s neck with enough force to carve another passageway through the mountain. The Brahmin moved with preternatural speed, belying his white-haired ancientness, the stockiness of his physique and the heavy mass of his upper body. There was no time at all for the young rajkumar to dodge the blow, nor did Rama have any weapon with which to deflect the swinging axe. The Bow of Vishnu, however potent its celestial origin, was but a bow after all, not a shield or sword. So fifty thousand breaths caught in as many throats as the watching Ayodhyans saw their prince face the rushing gleam of that legendary blade without moving an inch.